


Acts of the Divine

by Axis II (Axis_II)



Series: The Beginning in the End [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:27:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 39
Words: 180,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Axis_II/pseuds/Axis%20II
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The soon-to-be-enthroned Divine Victoria summons her allies to Val Royeaux for a secret mission. The future of the Chantry rests in the hands of three women spread across Thedas. A Tranquil mage, an Antivan noble and an elven thief; Sister Nightingale will need them all before she rises to the Sunburst Throne. </p>
<p>(Follows Do Not Fear the Dark but will hopefully work as standalone).</p>
<p>M for language/adult themes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Act I:i Religion

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing of the Dragon Age Universe. I will, however, lay claim to several original characters that show up.

The Grand Cathedral of Orlais was everything the Chantry could represent to everyone. The pristine white walls embodied purity and strength. Its mighty twin towers, visible for miles in every direction of Val Royeaux, were beacons for the faithful. The beautiful architecture and luxurious decor praised the Maker by embodying him and his beloved in a fittingly glorious abode. Once everything was combined, however, the overall impression seemed to become one massive 'Fuck You Tevinter.'

Inquisitor Trevelyan had never been to Minrathous but Dorian had once confessed that the Argent Spire – home of the Black Divine – didn't have a stitch on the Grand Cathedral. ' _You see, silvery metal and obsidian are all well and good on armor but don't really inspire thoughts of peace and heavenly reward. I was put more in the mind of your typical mad warlord fortress, or perhaps a high end bondage brothel.'_ The Tevinter mage's words repeated in her mind and she forced herself to NOT remember the rest of that conversation. The debate of what exactly constituted bondage had been an entertaining subject to pass the time on Hinterland roads but she was reasonably certain it wasn't appropriate in the halls of the seat of the Divine. Even thinking the word was probably a damning offense.

To distract herself she studied the massive murals and paintings that adorned the walls they were passing. Andraste escaping slavery (in Tevinter). Her rise as Prophet of the Maker. Andraste leading the first Exalted March (on Tevinter). The burning pyre of her martyred death (once again, in Tevinter). _Yes, definitely detecting a theme._ Eve's eyebrow twitched in amusement as she wondered if there wasn't a final painting being stored somewhere that depicted the Maker's thumb coming down to squash the Imperium like a bug. No, that one was probably in the Most Holy's private quarters.

"Skyhold really should commission some artwork," the Inquisitor commented aloud as she continued onto the murals that were less 'Fuck Tevinter' and more 'Kill all Darkspawn.' Every so often there'd be a beatific depiction of one of the Divines engaging in some heartwarming act of mercy or wisdom but then the swords appeared again.

Cassandra, who'd been walking silently at her side, followed Trevelyan's eyes and quickly surmised her line of thought.

"Perhaps a series of paintings depicting the victories and conquests of the Inquisition?" the Nevarran posited in the clipped cadences of her native tongue, delicately softened from many years of service in Orlais.

"Just what I was thinking. But I don't know if any artist could do you justice naked," Eve let her eyes slide towards the Seeker, doing her damnedest not to smile too soon. Cassandra was so much easier to fluster when she thought her lover was being serious. Sadly, she'd quickly learned to not take anything the Inquisitor said seriously.

"I shudder to think of such a painting existing. You would likely hang it in your quarters," the brunette easily shot back, refusing to rise to the bait.

Eve nodded thoughtfully at the argument. _Maker's breath, it's getting harder and harder to make her blush these days!_ She allowed herself the mental complaint. It wasn't so much that she cared about making the woman uncomfortable or enjoyed torturing her (much) but the way the color spread across her face was Eve's favorite sight. It was so reminiscent of the flush that consumed her face during other, more private activities.

"Only because I would have to kill anyone else that saw it. You could be the undoing of the entire Inquisition," Trevelyan caught the Seeker's hand and used it to pull the warrior closer to her side as they walked. Scrupulously discreet anytime they were in public it felt indulgent even to touch.

"Careful, Inquisitor. The walls have eyes," Cassandra cautioned but the gravity of her words couldn't disguise the affectionate tolerance in her tone. Or the subtle, lingering caress of her thumb along the back of Eve's hand.

"If they didn't before they do now. Leliana probably has a legion of spies peering out through each of these paintings," Trevelyan agreed, squinting at the oil and canvas as though she might see still eyes blink back.

"That would be shrewd. She will be an excellent Divine. I am glad we're here for the enthronement." Sincerity warmed the words. The Seeker might have also been nominated for the sunburst throne but there wasn't even a trace of jealousy or resentment in her expression when she'd congratulated the future Divine Victoria.

Eve hummed a quiet agreement, recalling the many hours she'd spent trying to find out if Cassandra was disappointed in anyway to be passed over. She'd asked many times; shortly after the appointment was announced, again when she found out the Right Hand would no longer be needed, then before Leliana left for Val Royeaux, and after . . . By the sixth time the Inquisitor worriedly asked if the woman was _really_ ok with losing an opportunity to shape the Chantry's future Cassandra had lost her patience. She'd tossed Eve to the wood floor of her quarters over the forge, pinning her down and explaining very clearly that she was perfectly happy with her fate and thankful for the future she'd been given. She then made Eve thankful too – thoroughly and noisily.

"Skyhold must be quiet with so many of us here. How long will it take?" Trevelyan eyed the massive double doors at the end of the hall, finally within sight. How long did these corridors need to be? Were they using them for horse races?

"The initial rite is brief, followed by the reading of the Chant of Light and then the full enthronement ceremony. I imagine many of our friends will only be present for a portion," the Seeker shrugged noncommittally.

"That depends – is there a buffet? You know our people and food," Eve chuckled. While Iron Bull and Varric could put a distillery out of business they weren't half as bad as Sera. The elf seemed to be on a constant mission to make herself sick yet had never once succeeded. Perhaps the riotously offensive burps were a preventative measure? Then there was Cole. Eve had actually caught him pocketing sweet biscuits at the last banquet. Cole! Who had never eaten or drank in his life up to a few months ago. The spirit-turned-flesh undoubtedly had a very solid, absolutely brilliant and completely bizarre reason for his hoarding but she'd simply stopped asking. It was easier to just trust him. Sera, on the other hand, was now carefully watched. She'd eaten a pearl necklace, for Maker's sake! Just because it happened to have been on the dessert table . . .

They reached the doors to the grand hall/throne room and Trevelyan reached for the handle but a gentle pressure on her other hand stopped her short. She turned in askance, perplexed by the sudden hesitation. Was there resentment after all? Some doubt that Cassandra hadn't confessed? The various flashing emotions in her hazel eyes were still a challenge for the Inquisitor to read and she cursed every time she faced the fathomless confusion of that gaze. Before she could launch into a hundred worried questions a tiny smirk graced the Nevarran beauty's lips and she leaned in to press a quick but tender kiss to her cheek. Instinctively, the Inquisitor lifted a hand to touch the tingling skin of her face, surprised by the unexpected display of affection.

"The first time I kissed anyone was here in the Grand Cathedral. I would prefer to remember such a moment with you," the Seeker casually explained. The twitch of her fingers – straining to keep from clenching too tight – confessed her unease.

Eve's mind filled with a dozen reactions. From total shock that Cassandra had been bold enough to kiss _anyone_ in this holy a place to horror that her first kiss had been in so sterile an environment to a momentary jealousy that she'd kissed someone else. The thoughts all begged for access to her tongue but ultimately there was only one that deserved to be expressed.

"Cassandra," the Inquisitor shook her head in quiet wonder before quickly grabbing the other warrior and pulling her close, "That doesn't count as a kiss."

The Seeker's mouth was claimed before she could object. The touch of luxuriant softness against her lips erased any arguments and all too easily she molded herself to the familiar embrace. The trade of caresses was silent but for the occasional, gentle sigh until Eve finally pulled back, mournfully brushing her thumb over a plush lower lip.

"NOW you've had a kiss in the Grand Cathedral," she smirked, noting the color that had subtly risen on the other woman's cheeks. Maybe _that_ could be her new favorite look.

* * *

In the Divine Chamber of the cathedral, at the far end of the room, stands the Sunburst Throne. On its raised dais, the seat of the Divine is at once magnificent and humble. Towering twice as tall as a man, the rich, dark wood radiates strength and power yet is unadorned. No jewels or rich ore, no elaborate inscriptions or florid designs. Only one large symbol, the golden sun, is carved upon it as a crest.

This divine seat has stood empty since the death of Justinia V, shrouded in black and mourning the tragedy. The crowd that now filled the room deliberately avoided stealing glances at the soon to be occupied throne. The dark shrouds of sadness had been stripped off and the wood gleamed with fresh polishing, nearly glowing in anticipation. Leliana watched with a hint of amusement as each successive ambassador, noble and cleric that greeted her furtively eyed the seat. She had deliberately not even set a foot on the dais, staying on the same level as the many visitors and dignitaries that had come for the ceremony. Small gestures could become powerful symbols.

The doors of the chamber were daily oiled into silence but Sister Nightingale could always feel the subtle stir of air that meant they'd opened to admit more guests. A quick darting glance brought a genuine smile to her lips; the Inquisitor had arrived, at last. That meant her special invitees were all assembled.

"Marquis, a pleasure as always," Leliana easily greeted the latest noble to stand before her, a man who looked as oily as the silent hinges. The tiniest movement of her eyebrow was enough to tell the initiate at her side what to do. The young sister slipped through the crowd of subdued noise and garish color to intercept Eve and Cassandra before anyone could even notice their presence. They were whisked away through an almost invisible door in the far corner, assured that the Most Holy-to-be had more specific plans for them.

With her allies safely gathered Leliana could feel invisible weight slipping from her shoulders. Not much – not with the whole of the Chantry about to be put in her hands – but enough that she could bear to continue smiling at strangers a little longer.


	2. Act I:ii Summons

Cassandra wasn't entirely sure what she'd expected upon being informed that Her Holiness wished a more private audience with her friends. But she definitely wasn't prepared for the burst of expletives and sudden freezing air that blew her backwards when they were ushered through the secluded doors.

"C'mon, Sunshine, unfreeze him. He didn't mean it," a rumbling chastisement brought back a thousand memories with its words and tone.

"Oh yes he did!" another familiar voice erupted in argument, "Leave him, Bethany. Maybe the ice will cool his blood, randy bastard."

Cassandra easily spotted Varric arguing with the two Hawke sisters. And where there was Hawke there had to be . . .

"You rather liked him last time, Hawke. Remember? Something about an archer's fingers being so strong." The teasing ended in a laugh when Kirkwall's Champion elbowed Isabela. Hard.

"I really don't want to know about that," Bethany winced, shaking the ice crystals off her fingers and sending her sister a glance of disgust.

"No. You don't," an unfamiliar voice echoed the revulsion and Cassandra traced it to a woman in heavy armor leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. The stern conviction of her tone clearly spoke from experience and the implied reprimand actually caused Hawke to cringe.

"Do we interrupt? Or quickly sell tickets?" Trevelyan quietly asked with a glance to her companion.

"The Inquisition can always use funds," the Seeker deadpanned right back, her eyes roving the pack of reunited allies. Though they'd both barely even whispered to each other the conversation caught attention.

"Sourpuss! You delicious dragon slayer, let me look at you!" Isabela leapt off the table she'd been reclining on. The darker woman strode confidently into Cassandra's personal space until the cloth of her corset nearly brushed the Seeker's armor. She watched with playful challenge in her eyes as the warrior fought not to back up or shove her away. _Abominable woman._

"Look but don't touch, Rivaini. She looks like she's in the mood to bite," Varric advised, also approaching and receiving a hearty greeting from Eve.

"Mmmm. With that mouth I'm sure she leaves a lovely scar." The pirate allowed a flash of her own canines, glance blatantly dragging towards the Nevarran's lips.

"And with your mouth it is a wonder they let you in here." Cassandra rolled her eyes, setting her scowl even more firmly in place.

When she'd first met the pirate she'd found her unbearable. The brazen flirtation, the clearly depraved and amoral mind, her dissolute lifestyle and selfishness; she was everything the Seeker was trained to avoid and despise. Unfortunately, she was also useful, talented, and damnably loyal under all that narcissistic indulgence. What time they'd been forced to spend together had gradually taught Cassandra a grudging tolerance for the woman that eventually turned into a truce. Neither of them respected each other but there was a mutual fondness – if only for the pleasure of trading insults.

"They didn't have much choice. But she did have to wear a cloak through the main hall," Hawke supplied with a smile. Hardly surprising, really. The sailor hadn't done much to change her garb and the amount of flesh visible was simply . . . unholy.

"The Chantry does have a long tradition of taking in criminals and whores. Isabela fits right in," Eve shrugged, bringing a sharp laugh from the woman still standing near Bethany.

"You say the sweetest things!" The pirate cooed to Trevelyan, finally slipping back out of Cassandra's personal space and brushing an affectionate finger over the Inquisitor's cheek.

"Isabela . . ." The Seeker knew this particular habit was a deliberate attempt at provoking her. The problem was that it still worked. Eve heard the growl of warning in her tone and swiftly took a step away from the teasing touch.

"Ugh, still only allowing the captain at the helm are you? Fine." The Rivaini pouted but returned to drape herself over Hawke, determined to be inappropriate with _someone_. Being anywhere near the Chantry brought out the worst in her.

"Glad you could join us, Inquisitor. Whatever romp Leliana has in mind has an interesting guest list," Hawke greeted, completely unperturbed by the half-naked woman now wrapped around her armor.

"So I see. You must be Guard Captain Aveline?" Eve approached the warrior who'd remained distant and uninvolved throughout much of the theatrics. Now she straightened, clearly taken aback by the recognition.

"I am. How did you know me so quickly?" The woman graciously shook the proffered hand but couldn't conceal a grain of suspicion in her gaze. A natural guard.

"Varric paints a very vivid picture in his stories," Trevelyan explained, choosing to omit the fact that a dog-eared copy of 'The Champion of Kirkwall' never left the side of her bed.

"He got the hair color right. That's about all." Aveline shot the dwarf a sharp glance, an expression that Cassandra had felt on her own face many times when dealing with the slippery writer.

"Not true, I also quoted you at length. Your insults, threats, those wonderfully longwinded lectures on morality. You supplied half the lines in Swords and Shields," Varric corrected. Reference to the romance serial triggered a sudden burst of laughter and Cassandra realized – too late – it had come from herself.

"She's the knight-captain," the Seeker quickly explained her epiphany, "Honestly, Varric, is there no end to the ways you exploit your friends?"

"I prefer to think of it as drawing from life. And I only happened to use her for the cover of the book because at the time she was the toughest, tight-ass bitch I knew. I'll be using you for the next one, trust me," the short blond retorted with a grin.

"Damn it, dwarf, you put me on a cover?!" The woman's face turned a darker red than her hair.

"Calm down, ginger. It's a good likeness, very flattering and not the nude that Rivaini was trying to get me to use," Varric waved off the anger as easily as Iron Bull dismissed vegetables.

"Pity, mine was better," Isabela's sigh was petulant but brief, "Big girl, meet the ball crusher. You'll like her, I promise. She's like you but worse in every way."

"That might be the highest compliment she's ever given anyone." Aveline nodded to Cassandra in greeting, her explosive irritation at the slander to her person quickly subsiding. After years of association with the two insufferable rogues she'd clearly become accustomed to their offenses.

"Truly flattering." The Seeker's eyes rolled heavenward but she allowed a hint of smile as they shook hands.

"Good, that just leaves frosty here. Who's he?" Eve gestured to the frozen man that looked for all the world like an ice sculpture.

"I'm not sure. He startled me a bit," Bethany admitted, embarrassed eyes flitting around the room.

"He's a forward little bastard," Hawke supplied, still scowling and instinctively moving between her sister and the ice man.

"Fabulous, you're clearly a fan." Trevelyan nodded, turning to the rest of the company in hopes of clarification.

"Don't listen to her, he has a magnificent range of skills. A true artist," Isabela argued with a little too much memory in the wistful words. She leaned forward and dragged a finger over the helpless man's frozen throat.

"Either way, we should probably thaw him out for introductions, shouldn't we?" Varric looked to the younger Hawke, hoping common sense would finally prevail.

It was true that the mage didn't deal well with being surprised. There had been several instances during her brief visit to Skyhold where sudden movements or noise triggered her panic and she either froze or force blasted every person within 300 feet. It had been Iron Bull (of all people) who understood that she was still traumatized from her earlier ordeals; said he'd seen it with some of the saarebas that fought in Seheron. He and Dorian had helped her gain control of her nerves and reflexes – and undoubtedly scarred her in entirely new ways with their lewd conversations.

"I'll just release him then," Bethany raised a hand but was caught mid-gesture by Hawke's iron fist.

"He's not allowed to proposition my sister again," the Champion commanded, "Are we clear, Isabela?"

"Don't make it my fault, sweet thing. He only offered to let her see his tattoos. After all, he knows how you love mine." Isabela grinned, one hand resting on her hip, fingers grazing the elaborate design barely hidden beneath her scant garb.

"It's the _way_ he says things," Hawke muttered irritably, clearly still bristling with protectiveness but also losing the momentum of her rage.

"It always is with Zevran." Haughty but dismissive words came from the far side of the room, yet another almost invisible door revealing the proud stature of Morrigan like a prized painting on display. A twist of her fingers and the frozen elf was released, his first breaths nothing but steam.

"Ah. I assume I upset someone?" he looked around, gathering his bearings with aplomb. Even with his teeth chattering Cassandra could hear the Antivan accent.

"No more than usual, elf," the witch sauntered towards the group of reunited friends and newly introduced strangers. Her eyes met Isabela's and for a moment it felt as though the whole room might end up in ice and blood. Then her gaze moved on and the tension broke.

Cassandra felt Eve's body twitch as if eager to move towards the apostate but held resolutely in place by instinct. She'd never entirely understood the Inquisitor's fondness for the dangerous witch but knew the woman had suffered terribly when she'd left Skyhold. Perhaps it was simply because Morrigan was one of the only people who'd never looked to Trevelyan as any sort of leader, merely an equal – and possibly barely that.

"Well, seems the gang's all here. Now we just need Nightingale to tell us _why._ " Varric looked around the assembled friends, enemies and strangers.

"Obviously she's planning some excellent debauchery to commemorate her last night of unholy life." Isabela winked at Cassandra, one hand trailing over Hawke's cuirass in a way that made the Seeker want to blush for them both.

"Or maybe she intends to use us as her honor guard? There aren't really a lot of templars left around." Eve couldn't help but think of the handful of lyrium-deprived men and women who'd straggled desperately towards Skyhold since the fall of Corypheus. The supply of their drug had been cut off, they had no protection from their corrupted red brethren and no purpose since the mages had been given safety. They presented themselves, sometimes one at a time, often in pieces of some broken regiment but always they came. Cullen had begun helping all he could. Medicines, rest, reform; they would survive and be humans once more but the Templar Order had crumbled.

"Can you really imagine Varric ever being given any title with the word 'honor?' Never mind the slattern," Aveline shook her head with a chuckle.

"She'll explain in good time. I thought patience was one of the virtues of your faith?" Morrigan settled comfortably into an ornate chair, turning it instantly into a throne simply by filling it with her own aloof dignity.

"Andraste escaped slavery, married a barbarian and raised an army to march on Tevinter. She wasn't sitting on her hands waiting for water to boil," Seeker Pentaghast corrected without malice. The witch was always trying to goad the faithful.

"Are you saying she _wasn't_ virtuous then?" the dark haired mage mocked shock.

"She sat on more than her hands. Have you seen that statue of Maferath?" Isabela chimed in.

"It has long been rumored that she took a lover during the Exalted March as well," Zevran agreed with his dissolute ally.

"Lewd myth and gossip. That is slanderous!" Cassandra objected. She felt a hand on her arm, fingers gently squeezing. Glancing over she found Eve's concerned gaze. The Nevarran didn't even realize she'd been reaching for her weapon. A few deep breaths slowed her heart rate. She was used to Morrigan's heresy and Isabela's obscenity but having both in the same room was more challenge than she'd ever dealt with before.

"Clearly you've all enjoyed catching up, yes?" The amused words lilted through the air around them. All eyes rose to the main doors, finding Leliana as she walked in. A familiar silhouette behind her coalesced into the form of the Hero of Ferelden. Reunited at long last, neither woman was ever far from the other.

"Thank the Maker. You know this lot will kill each other if they're left alone too long," Bethany gave her cousin a look that was at once accusatory and pleading. Apparently being the only sane person in the room wasn't her favorite task. How much of her work here in Orlais had simply been babysitting their various allies? It would be a round the clock ordeal simply keeping Hawke and Isabela in line.

"Still better than when they're getting along too well, trust me," Solona tossed her relation a wink.

"Ah, our bard. More beautiful now, I think, than at the last time I saw you. Your warden as well. You are both a breath of the fresh spring air laden with blossoms. Love suits you well," Zevran executed a dramatic bow.

"And your charm has not dulled either, I see?" the former spymaster smiled to him before turning the same pleasure on all her friends, "I am grateful you came. We have helped each other at various times and now I must impose once more upon you all."

"Anything for you, Leliana, you know that," the Inquisitor readily shifted into a more attentive stance, warrior training snapping her spine to attention. The sentiment was echoed by the others present. Cassandra made a mental note that only Morrigan seemed disinterested in the topic at hand.

"Thank you. We have much work to do," Leliana stepped to the center of the room and addressed them all in her dulcet yet commanding voice, "The Chant of Light has not been sung in this place since the death of Divine Justinia. Tomorrow at dawn it shall commence once more and when it is complete – two weeks hence – I will take my place on the Sunburst Throne. You have until then to help me ensure the Chantry's destiny."


	3. Act I:iii Missions

At Leliana's gesture the companions all took seats around the room. Eve enjoyed watching how each person chose the location best suited to their instincts. Varric chose a chair that let him face the windows while Zevran settled with his back close to a wall. Isabela grabbed a decanter of what was most likely ceremonial wine and stretched out on a sofa, cursing good naturedly when Hawke forced her to shift her legs and make room. Leliana sat between her two oldest friends, Solona on her right, Morrigan on her left.

_Hmmm. Left and Right, a harbinger of things to come?_

Bethany and Aveline both took up positions near Hawke and Isabela, ready to slap either one if they misbehaved. The Inquisitor sensed Cassandra assuming her watch stance, preferring to stand alert for danger rather than get comfortable. There'd be no convincing the Seeker to relax so Eve simply dropped into the chair closest to the hyper-vigilant warrior. It seemed all the guests shared a common interest in watching for trouble - or at least having a good seat for the show.

The Almost Holy relaxed in this company, taking off the Chantry headdress. Eve controlled her expression but internally started at the sight. Granted, it had been several months since she left Skyhold and before that there were barely a handful of times anyone had seen her without her cowl. _When did her hair get so long?!_ Trevelyan tried to stay focused on the bard's face but couldn't help gliding over the fiery tresses. Gone was the utilitarian page boy cut, replaced by feathery waves that touched her shoulders and even below. The gentler look was almost shocking, softening the sharp lines of her face while accentuating each delicate feature.

The physical change was an unpleasant reminder to Eve that the woman before her was no longer her spymaster. She wasn't simply a part of her inner circle, an advisor for stealthily removing obstacles and silencing enemies. The Inquisitor had no fondness for the problems they faced over those many hours at the war table but a twist in her gut longed for the camaraderie of it, the security she'd always enjoyed in their mutual trust and purpose. The bard had achieved the highest possibly ranking in The Game. In a few short days she would not only dominate the board, she would set the rules.

Eve managed to shake herself from such thoughts just as the woman she was pondering opened her mouth to speak.

"It is public knowledge that I support mage freedom, a contentious stand to be sure. One many attribute to my associates," Leliana glanced to the women on either side, "That, however, will seem a minor indulgence once the people hear my intent to allow dwarves and elves to become initiates."

"Oh goody, are we going to have another schism? Can I please be on the side without any dwarves?" Varric begged. Was it possible to be racist when the species you hate is your own? To be fair he didn't hate all dwarves; just tunnel dwellers. And the Shaperate. And most of the Paragons. And then there was the Carta . . .

"That is exactly what we will prevent. Andreasteans hate change but they are devoted to signs. I intend to give them one. In two weeks when I make my first address as Divine Victoria I will announce it is time for all the Maker's children to be reunited - be they torn apart by magic, divided by politics or even separated across race," Leliana paused, a hint of excitement glittering in her eyes at finally getting to reveal her plan, "A mission that I will begin by restoring Andraste's lost blood to the Chantry."

The audience was silent as the unexpected thought wormed its way across minds. _Andraste had children?_ Eve could vaguely recall her childhood lessons in the Chantry - particularly the fierce bruises she was constantly getting on her hands from getting her knuckles rapped for not paying attention – but she was fairly certain there hadn't been any heirs. Learning about the 3 sons she raised for Maferath had been a confusing crossover between history, theology, politics and a few awkward minutes of morality but young Trevelyan had come away quite certain that none of the boys were of the Prophet's blood.

Darting a glance up at Cassandra Eve hoped to find similar confusion or disbelief in the Seeker's eyes. On the contrary, the deep hazel was flashing with excitement, brow knit tight to stave off hope.

"You found them?" the former Right Hand demanded, the doubt of her tone unable to edge out wonder.

"The Divines of the ages have left quite a legacy of secrets," the redhead nodded, her lips curled in irony, "Justinia left me pieces of many and it has taken time to put them together. For centuries the Chantry has publicly declared that none of Andraste's children remain. Odd then, that I found an ancient contract for the assassinations of any such descendants. Commissioned over three hundred years ago and still unpaid."

"The Chantry hired assassins for people that don't exist? Think they'd pay me to hunt down the Summerday Nug?" Hawke grabbed the bottle of wine from Isabela long enough to take a sip.

"It's the Chantry, sweets. They don't bugger around. I'm sure they only hire the best," the pirate reached to steal her drink back but froze part way, eyes suddenly widening, "Blighted balls. They _do_ only hire the best. This isn't going to be a simple jaunt through the House of Repose."

"No, it is not," Leliana confirmed with a small shake of her head.

"Shit. Crows? Not again," Varric groaned, a sound that brought a chorus of echoes from around the room.

"And now I know why I am here. I did wonder," Zevran smiled, crossing his arms in satisfaction.

"Oh yes, we will be needing you, Zevran. You see, my network has traced the contract to the House of Vici. You know them, yes?" Sister Nightingale so enjoyed teasing people with information. It was like watching a hunter lure prey with a trail of bait, each successive step a game drawing them ever closer to the ultimate trap.

"The oldest family to serve the Crows? I should have known as much. Naturally, dear woman, you could not have found any _ordinary_ challenge for us to sharpen our teeth!" The elf's effusive enthusiasm was difficult for Eve to read – either he truly was pleased by the idea or his sarcasm was on par with Morrigan. They did spend a fair amount of time together once . . . a shared trait then?

"Generations of being Crows has cursed the family with excessive paranoia. Only Lady de Vici can decode the records her ancestors made on the contract and target. Which will first require finding the papers," Leliana elaborated further.

"The Archive. Been there done that, eh, Isabela?" Varric laced his fingers behind his head, reclining back in his chair as though he'd just kicked up at the beach.

"An unfortunate place for meeting old friends," The pirate agreed, her mouth twisting into something like a frown for the first time. Her eyes briefly darkened with an unhappy thought but it vanished with a blink.

"Which is why neither of you can go there again. The Crows have standing contracts on you both. Anyone who kills either of you receives their guaranteed protection for life. Truly, I am amazed the assassins haven't been beating down your doors!" The redhead's eyes bounced back and forth between the two rogues.

"Oh, they've tried." The dwarf's mysterious grin suggested strange noises at night and mornings of scrubbing bloodstains from stone.

"Wait, you can't plan to use Zevran," Isabela suddenly objected, "He's beautiful with any sort of blade but he doesn't know traps from a pair of tits!"

"I would argue they are often one and the same," the elf supplied without any trace of offense.

"No," Leliana agreed, "He will be most useful in dealing with Lady de Vici. But the archive will require someone with a unique touch."

"Hawke doesn't go without me," the Rivaini swung her legs off the sofa and even set down the bottle of wine. That was about as serious as she could get without a weapon in her hands.

"Calm yourself, Isabela. I would not dare separate you. Or put your Champion at risk. There is another thief I have in mind – a master in the trade who happens to have fallen on hard times. Unfortunately, acquiring her services will be," the bard paused, finding the right word, "Complicated."

The Inquisitor listened carefully as the future Divine outlined the impossible, extending the tendrils of her thoughts to wrap around the large scheme as it was woven. A lost mystery buried in coded research in a booby-trapped vault. A reclusive and deadly noblewoman with the only decryption key. An expert thief held in prison by the Qunari for stealing too many secrets. It was the sort of dangerous intrigue Josephine would adore, Cullen would despise and Varric would make money writing about. It was pure Nightingale. Eve's heart happily skipped a beat at the very thought.

"Since this thief is stuck in a Maker forsaken nughole on Rivain I assume you want me and Isabela going after her?" Hawke concluded after Leliana finished speaking.

"Bloody Ox-men. I hate Rivain," the pirate complained but relaxed back to lean against the Champion. Irritation couldn't quite erase the seductively melodic lower notes of her voice. The only time sex left her tone was in battle and even that wasn't guaranteed, depending on whether Hawke was nearby.

"You're from Rivain," Aveline pointed out. The speed of her argument felt like a reflex, no one retorted that fast unless it was habit. Eve remembered that some of the best parts of Varric's Tale of the Champion were the fights between these two.

"I'm from Llomeryn, big girl. Different world. They know how to make a ship, a drink and a man," Isabela corrected with pride.

"And if we ever get there I'm sure you'll demand all three," Hawke sighed, wrapping an arm around the pirate who'd reclined against her.

"Care to join the fun, Inquisitor? I'm sure we'd find _some_ use for you and your Seeker," the dark sailor winked, her invitation extending well beyond the mission at hand.

"Hang on, Rivaini. Her Inquisitorialness has pull in Antiva. She's also the only hero the Crows haven't tried to kill," Varric pointed out the unique advantages Trevelyan held. Solona and Hawke both subtly nodded in agreement, the heroic cousins sharing the same pursed lip frowning expression of unpleasant memory.

"Not yet, anyway. I'm sure I'll eventually ruffle some feathers." Eve had enough other people that wanted to kill her; paid assassins weren't even going to make the top ten threats.

"The Inquisitor and Seeker will not be joining either of you. I have a separate matter for their concern. I suggest all of you travel together as much as possible. Varric, you and Zevran will make contact with Lady de Vici. Hawke, Isabela, acquire the thief and she the records. Captain Aveline?" Leliana's calm authority held everyone in respectful suspense, "Keep them from doing anything stupid."

"Why do I always get the hardest assignments?" the redheaded guard murmured, only partially sarcastic.

"Come now, big girl, a little hardness never hurt anybody. And a big hardness can be even better," Isabela teased, "You're probably just not getting enough to be used to it."

"Shut up, whore," Aveline rolled her eyes. Her irritation sounded familiar, in fact, it sounded suspiciously like the same tone that snuck into Cassandra's voice whenever she dealt with the pirate.

"Wait – what was that bit you snuck in there about the two steel stud-buckets? They're not going with us?" The Rivaini woman's mind caught a new thought and shifted gears.

"I require their help for a different issue. Perhaps now would be a good time for us to discuss it separately?" Leliana rose gracefully from her seat, a tilt of her head beckoning both of the warriors to follow.

"Maker's Flaming Ass! I told you, Hawke, they're having the foursome without us!" Isabela's lustful envy felt like it could burn holes into Eve's armor as she rose to follow Leliana and Solona from the room.

"That is most definitely not going to happen," Cassandra stated, voice as cold and firm as a blade. Her stern gaze broke the pirate's lascivious eyes away from Eve's retreating backside.

"So glad to hear you say that, sweets. We'll be ready anytime you are," Isabela grinned, a single deliberate wink making the Seeker realize precisely how wrong her words had sounded. Her face hurt from the sudden flames of red heating her cheeks. Her embarrassed anger was perfectly synchronized with Aveline's disgust.

"Pirate whore," both women muttered before the door closed behind Cassandra.

* * *

Cassandra Pentaghast unbuckled her weapon and hung it off the back of a chair. The usually comforting weight on her hip had begun to feel heavy during the afternoon conversation with Leliana. Yet it so clearly wasn't a mere physical burden that bothered her.

 _The Rite of Reversal._ _Maker._

Logically, she'd known it was bound to come up sooner or later. From the moment she read the history of the Seekers and understood the secrets that had been so painfully hidden, she'd known that it would be her fight. She would have to right the wrong of it. Her predecessors had made terrible choices and pushed their problems to the future. To her.

She stripped her breastplate and let it fall to the floor, the flaming eye of the Seekers of Truth staring up at her. With a scoff in the back of her throat she used her foot to flip the armor over, too angry with the Order to see yet another reminder. A few long strides took her outside onto the balcony. All of Val Royeaux was overflowing with visitors; faithful pilgrims, fashionable nobles and shrewd politicians had all swarmed upon the capital city for the enthronement but Leliana had arranged for her close companions to be given quarters within the Grand Cathedral itself.

Resting her elbows on the balustrade Cassandra gazed down to the pristine white courtyard below. The soothing sight helped calm the swirl of her mind. After a few minutes of meditative silence and deep breathing she was able to do what Seekers were trained for: set aside emotion and focus on fact.

A mage made Tranquil just before the fall of the circles, before the outbreak of war. She was probably one of the last to undergo the punishment. If the girl had simply managed to evade the Templars a little longer she probably would have been able to escape completely into the chaos. Besides, running away wasn't enough to deserve Tranquility. Even on the fourth offense. Killing two of the Templars that came after her? That had been the mistake. Montsimmard was known for being one of the most merciful and lenient Circles but dead bodies meant consequences.

The Tranquil could lead productive, useful lives and Cassandra herself had witnessed mages volunteering for the rite when they grew too fearful of the demons whispering to them at night. They found peace, safety and satisfaction. The Tranquil were some of the best enchanters, they were so efficient they all but ran the daily life of the Circles. They could be quite ingenious at problem solving and their unfailing logic had often been useful in many of the Order's investigations.

Truly, Tranquil could do many things. But there were three things they could never do: use magic, access the Fade or feel emotion. No spells, no dreams, no smiles (except to make other people feel less nervous because, truthfully, they made everyone nervous). That was why the reports from Montsimmard caught Leliana's attention. This woman/mage/Tranquil had been displaying uncharacteristic behaviors. It might have gone unnoticed during the maelstrom and confusion of the war but now mages were returning to the Circles because they were safe and familiar and with that return the flow of information resumed once more.

A Tranquil should never be heard to laugh. They shouldn't be capable of twisting words with sarcasm. They shouldn't be seen struggling in their sleep. Under no circumstances did a Tranquil pick arguments with others or engage in a love affair. Let alone three. It added up to a single, inescapable conclusion: the Rite of Reversal. It was possible that this mage was the first to have successfully broken Tranquility since knowledge of the solution became public.

Leliana's frown on admitting that the information bled to the Circles before Justinia V could suppress it was an eloquent disapproval. This future Divine would have no such lapses during her reign. But as it had happened, she would make it work in her favor. The first reversed Tranquil would be a potent symbol for the mages of Thedas and a powerful ally. Depending on the nature of the woman she could bring her kind peacefully into the folds of the Chantry or spark a second revolt. _A Tranquil revolt, what would that look like?_

"You're lost in thought again." Playful words broke into Cassandra's thoughts. Instinctively, the line between her brows smoothed ever so slightly and the corners of her mouth eased up from their scowling frown.

"I am enjoying the view," the Nevarran shrugged, deliberately keeping her back towards her visitor.

"Seekers of Truth are _terrible_ liars. I've told you that a dozen times," Eve chided with a laugh, "You're so distracted you didn't even hear me come in. I could have stripped naked and bounced on the bed without you noticing."

"In that case you would simply have to demonstrate for me anything I had missed." Cassandra finally turned, knowing she couldn't suppress a smile and not bothering to try. She half expected to see the Inquisitor exactly as she had described, her desire for attention often outweighed mature behavior. In this case the woman was still clothed, though she was in the process of dropping her weapon and armor.

The Seeker allowed herself a few seconds of careful scrutiny, silently marveling at the strange perfection that had fallen into her life. She'd never imagined that falling in love could happen so easily or under such circumstances as theirs but from the first time the Inquisitor had been bold enough to kiss her it had been inescapable. Even now, after sharing a bed so often that Sera had taken to giving Cassandra advice about small clothes, (horrifying advice that dwelled far too often on things with holes) she still found herself wondering if it was real. Perhaps they'd never escaped the Fade at all and this was the dream that would hold her captive 'til death? Cassandra found Eve's eyes watching her, clearly amused by her distraction. With a touch of internal rebuke she shook herself and walked back into the room, wiping the expression off the Inquisitor's lips with the sudden and thorough attention of her own. _There are worse ways to die._

"Lovely as it would be to explore where that leads," Eve managed to pull away, despite the stitch in her breath that protested such discipline, "I think you should tell me what you're thinking. You were awfully quiet when Leliana told us about Montsimmard."

"Tranquility never should have been given to the mages," Cassandra stated flatly and shocked herself. She'd never so much as thought the sentence in her mind yet here it was fully formed on her lips. It repeated in her head several more times, with each repetition growing more firm.

"Then the dangerous ones should've just been given up to demons or slain?" Trevelyan's eyebrows knit together in puzzlement.

"No," the Seeker sighed and moved to sit on the edge of the bed, pulling the pieces of thought that had been careening through her mind for months into a semblance of order, "If they were in danger or posed a threat then Tranquility is still better than death but it never should have been in the hands of the Circles to decide. The Seekers invented Tranquility, we are the order dedicated to the protection of all from magical abuses. It should have remained solely our responsibility to perform the Rite and only on those mages that met _our_ criteria, not the arbitrary rules of their peers."

"That probably would have been better," Eve conceded, sitting down beside the brunette and catching her hand in a secure grip, "But it's ancient history now, Cassandra. Unlike a lot of the other atrocities of our recent past – this is one we can fix."

"It will take a long time," the Nevarran frowned; patience was never her strong suit. Clearly, Leliana wanted this mage for a reason. Apparently to show the Chantry's official approval of the Reversal. She might even form and announce some new process for appealing the Circles' past judgments and prioritizing those who should be released first.

"Well, right now I don't have any fanatical cults or false gods to deal with. Even the dragons have been quiet lately. I think the Inquisition could spare some help." Trevelyan's tone aimed for casual but there was determination beneath the words. The truths she'd learned from the first Inquisitor had left her with a sense of duty towards this very problem. She and Cassandra had spent many nights in long conversation on the subject. Tranquility may have been invented by the Seekers but it was when they were still the Inquisition. It was not the legacy they wanted to leave and if was within her power now to wipe the blot off their record, how could she walk away?

"Very well. Now that I'm done being distracted, I believe you had something you wanted to show me?" Cassandra's mouth turned at the corner to a trace of smile as she leaned closer, feeling the staccato breath that was Eve's chuckle.

The door of their room burst open with a massive noise like a sapper's explosive. There was a blur of skin and weaponry rushing past them and out onto the balcony. As Trevelyan and the Seeker watched, the blurred shape slowed long enough to recognize a blue bandana over rampant black tresses. Isabela caught their eye as she hoisted herself over the balcony railing, a long piece of intricately carved silver in her hand. She blew a kiss before vanishing completely from sight.

Pounding footsteps arrived just before another surprise raced into the room. The armor of Guard Captain Aveline was so thoroughly polished it gleamed like a mirror, except for the areas that had been soiled with hot wax and mashed bits of candle. She instantly recognized her target's escape route and raced to the balcony.

"Isabela, that candlestick is holy and priceless!" the redhead shouted at the escaping rogue, "You sell it and I will set fire to your ship!"

"Not a chance, big girl! Hawke and I have far more interesting plans for this little beauty," the shouted retort laughed back, somehow rich with blasphemy and seduction all at once, "Keep chasing me and I'll have to assume you want to join in too!"

"Maker save me," Aveline groaned and turned away in furious defeat. It was only then that she realized the room had other occupants, quickly squaring herself and framing apologies. Cassandra held up a staying hand.

"If memory serves, there is a special tea in the store rooms that used to be brewed for Beatrix when she could not sleep. In moderate doses it aids gradual and peaceful slumber but if you were to, say, triple the measure . . ." the Seeker left the thought and its ensuing possibilities hanging in air. There was no winning this night's battle but the next needn't be as impossible.

"That," Aveline began to smile, "Is the first good thing I've heard all day."


	4. Act I:iv Desecrations

_Night fell on the Grand Cathedral, bathing the grounds in surreal moonlight and every room in the warm glow of candles. The fortress of faith never truly slept, activity constant in the corridors like veins pumping blood in a body. On most nights only the servants and penitent moved through the silent halls but this evening sleep eluded many and muffled noise drifted through the walls in every direction._

Aveline knelt before an altar, lips barely moving in a silent prayer of apology. The ceremonial dressing had been straightened but there was still an obvious gap in the arrangement of candlesticks.

"By the Maker's grace I will not swear in a holy place. I will not do violence. I will not give in to wrath." The guard captain recited her promises, a mantra that barely restrained her bubbling frustration. She would not let Isabela's (rather expected) desecration force her into equally sacrilegious behavior. She would not be goaded into the same immaturity that the pirate always seemed to suck her into. She would not be petty, insulting, angry or rash. With peace of mind and calm control she would simply break the bitch's thieving damned fingers one by – oops.

"By the Maker's grace I will not be tempted to sin. I will not swear _again_ in a holy place . . ."

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

_The cathedral was the heart of the Chantry, the home of the Sunburst Throne; virtually the seat of the Maker in the mortal world. As such there were strict rules about vice. Alcohol was prohibited. On holy days. Before noon. To the servants. Also gambling: games that encouraged greed and the reliance on superstitions like luck were contrary to the virtues embodied in Andraste. But an enterprising mind could always find the right kind of sin._

"So, two sovereigns says the elf with the blue apron lets the bottle break." Varric's deep timber wasn't well-designed for whispering, his words turned into the sound an iron poker makes when cleaning the ash trap.

"Sovereigns, these are royals, yes? Why must each place be so confusing about their currencies?" Zevran lamented back, his softer voice more suited to the quiet conversation as both men kept themselves hidden around the corner.

"What, you expect us to be crass and call gold: gold, silver: silver? I thought Antivans were supposed to be creative," the dwarf chuckled sarcastically, checking around the wall to gauge the progress of their targets. The two serving women carried trays laden with the evening meals for some reclusive habitants of the cathedral.

"We are passionate and poetic people and I have often spontaneously composed entire stanzas of verse on an exotic beauty I wish to lure to my company. Unlike dwarves, we are not inspired by metal," the blond elf defended his heritage with pride.

"Sure. Until some noble offers you a sack of gold coins to kill somebody." Varric had no problem with assassins (Literally. He'd killed dozens of them) but poking at the Antivan was just plain fun.

"That is business. The less poetry involved in such dealings, the better. Crows do not care for creativity in their contracts." The assassin's words carried the chagrin of experience.

"Fine. The business here is that if she loses the bottle you give me two of the coins that are big and gold," Tethras clarified with painful simplicity.

"I accept. And if the bottle is saved you must do likewise for me," Zevran agreed with a firm nod.

"Right. One . . .two . . ." Instead of saying 'three' Varric leapt out from behind the wall, the elf right on his heels. The timing was perfect, both serving girls no more than two feet from turning the corner and Varric's surprise yell was nothing compared to the shrieking that answered. There was a momentary explosion of food and cutlery, gravy and vegetables splattering in every direction like the debris of mortar fire. Varric quickly lunged forward, catching one of the bottles out of its arc towards the wall. That was the first half of the mission accomplished: get liquor.

"Got it!" The dwarf darted past the servants and turned to see Zevran not moving, his eyes locked on the other bottle. It was falling back towards the carpet and, though the hands that shot forward fumbled and tipped it several times, the servant girl in the blue apron managed to catch the neck and pull it to the safety of her heaving bosom.

"Grazie mille, amor," The elf stepped swiftly into her space, an arm snaking around her waist to pull her close, the woman too startled to protest, "I will repay you with a dozen kisses."

He sealed the promise with the first of the twelve. Then he dramatically released the stunned woman and she was virtually swooning into the wall as he backed away, bowing like a chevalier. When he reached Varric they both turned and beat a hasty retreat before the shocked women could figure out what happened, let alone raise an alarm.

"You lose, my friend," Zevran's teeth flashed brightly in the dim light and he also raised his fist, clutching a bottle, "And now we have two for the night."

"I gotta admit it: you've got skills, lover boy," Varric grinned, "Ever play Wicked Grace?"

* * *

_Where guests were newcomers to the cathedral it could feel intimidating. The touch and spirits of a thousand holy women (and the occasional man) had left lingering imprints in the very stone. The walls were adorned with reminders of the sacred duty that had been so faithfully carried by previous generations and weighed upon those now standing in their shadow. Many people carried themselves taller as they plunged deeper into these corridors of greatness, drawing strength from the miraculous accomplishments of mere mortals. Others just felt like they were being watched . . ._

"Say it, Hawke." No voice so laden with wanton sin should've been able to purr from a mortal mouth. Desire demons couldn't master the mixture of hunger and control that made the words as needy as they were commanding.

"Maker's balls, Bela! Please!" the Champion had known her lover liked games but this was beyond anything she'd endured. The sheets beneath her body were soaked from sweat and the candles cast an eerie shine over Isabela's slick skin, damp from hours of this torture. The first few quick releases were little more than warm-ups for the marathon that the sailor had now dragged her into.

"Can you feel it, sweetness? That relief so close?" the pirate's words dripped into Hawke's open mouth, close enough to feel her smile, "You just have to say the words."

Hawke's body wasn't her own anymore. An eternity of artful fingers, hungry lips and teasing teeth had left her helpless, enthralled to the dark woman's will as she would be if possessed by a demon. She couldn't even control her breath, gasping or choking when a skillful touch ripped yet another sound from her throat.

"Hawke," Isabela's breath in her ear sent her whole body into a painful spasm of need, "What do you need? What do you want?"

"You," the answer was an easy and instantaneous moan of longing, "You, Bela, just you."

"Then what else matters? Say it." The taunting reply echoed the teasing touch that held her so expertly on edge, never quite enough. She could feel dampness beneath her fingers, skin too slick to hold as she dug in her nails to find a grip.

What did it matter anyway? Hawke had never been religious. It shouldn't matter where they were. It shouldn't matter what fell from her lips in the throes of passion. The smell of the sea pirate filled her senses; the salt of her sweat, the wind in her hair, the spice of her skin.

"Fuck!" the Champion gasped as teeth sank into a tender spot beneath her ear, guaranteed to leave a mark but too delicious for her to care.

"Halfway there," Isabela chuckled, the chill breeze of her voice raising goosebumps in its wake, "You won't regret it. I promise, love."

More than the torturous teasing, the expert manipulation, the so-close-she-could-taste-it release dangled just beyond reach, Hawke broke when she heard that word. Love. It was still so rare to hear the confession fall from Isabela's mouth, putting a name to the obvious but terrifying truth. The Rivaini sailor was gradually developing a taste for the word, trying it out on her tongue like an exotic flavor.

Hawke ripped her hands off the flesh of Isabela's back, the deep marks of her fingernails instantly coloring with bruises. Threading her fingers into damp hair on either side of the pirate's face she held her fast, dragging her eyes into an unbreakable gaze.

"Fuck the Maker," The Champion surrendered the blasphemous phrase she'd been stubbornly refusing to say, "And the Chantry and Divine and Andraste and everything in this world except you. Fuck them all. I love you."

Isabela's eyes momentarily warmed with emotion, burning off the haze of lust. Then triumph pulled her lips into a victorious grin and she leaned close, the touch of her mouth distracting Hawke from the shift of her fingers.

"Good girl." The demon pirate queen of the eastern seas whore admiral of the felicisima armada woman that would kill Marian by the pleasure of her fingers whispered the words just before all sound disappeared into the exploding white noise behind Hawke's eyes.

* * *

_The Grand Cathedral had a dark history of deception. Mysteries and lies crowded the stone memories far more than honesty or truth. That was why grand clerics over the years felt no guilt in planning treason and murder within these walls. Noble visitors plotted bribery, holy women orchestrated blackmail, sisters seduced secrets and servants stole potatoes. Thousands of crimes large and small had been committed over hundreds of years. The walls had stopped judging._

By now Solona had learned the precise timing and rhythm of the security sweeps that moved through the night outside the chamber of the Divine. Moonlight told her it was barely an hour from midnight yet she heard absolutely nothing from the hallway beyond as she lay in bed holding her breath. The sound of nothing paused outside the main door and then moved faithfully onward. Only Sparrow moved that quietly, her footsteps swallowing sound before it could be made.

Leliana had brought a handful of her best agents to Val Royeaux, the eyes and ears she would need close at hand while the rest stayed scattered wide. Sparrow was one that Solona was happy to have quietly lurking in the shadows. Not only was she a master at stealing secrets and intimidating other spies, she was softhearted enough to take care of Schmooples II and Boulette. Spoiled little beasts.

The day had gone better than she expected. Morrigan hadn't immediately incinerated Isabela, Zevran still had his entire anatomy intact and her cousin had only accidentally terrified and/or beguiled a handful of sisters. Hawke really needed to learn to stop charming or intimidating every person that crossed her path, there was a balanced middle ground she'd yet to explore. It was fortunate that Varric was nearby to deflect any ensuing drama with a quick wit or distracting yarn.

It had been years since the warden had so much history in a single room. The last time she'd been reunited with any more than two old companions was - Maker, was it Wynne's funeral? Shale huge and immovable as a mountain, silent in her sadness. Oghren had remained respectfully sober for a change. Alistair and Anora both so happy to see her, as though just her presence might distract them from how much they still didn't care for each other. (Andraste preserve them both, if they managed to produce an heir to the throne of Ferelden it would be a miracle). Of course, later they got into a bitter marital/royal squabble while Oghren did something unspeakable with a tavern girl on the flour sacks.

Then there was today, having Zevran, Morrigan, Isabela and Leliana all in the same room. It was a bizarre trick of the mind that took her backwards in time while still elongating the many days that had passed over their absence. Add to it her last two living blood relations and the Hero was hard pressed not to be overwhelmed. After so many years isolated, independent and alien it was difficult to allow people close once more, let alone so many of them.

Speaking of closeness . . .

Solona felt fingers clench tighter than usual into her waist. Opening her eyes towards the ceiling she tilted her head down, barely able to make out the mane of red hair spread over her shoulder and chest. Leliana's breathing felt even beneath her hand but the warden was no stranger to the subtle clues of her bard's distress. The fingers clenched again, one nail surely leaving a mark on her hip bone.

"You're worrying," the mage murmured, shifting to wrap both arms around her lover.

"I'm sleeping," Leliana mumbled back, often given to humor when she preferred to avoid truth. It hadn't always been so. Had she learned this with the Inquisition?

"What is it, Leli, anxious about tomorrow?" Solona inched her fingers along the redhead's ribs, counting each and feeling the shiver of spastic response as the muscles were too weary to fight being tickled.

"Tomorrow I take the highest vows in the Chantry. You should be far more worried than I," Sister Nightingale teased, waking enough to begin a retaliatory attack. Nimble touches danced artfully over every vulnerable muscle and the mage laughed, trying to catch the offending digits.

"I don't see why. You're the one vowing to be celibate, not me!" She retorted, finally capturing both delicate wrists.

"You had entire years apart from me. If you weren't unfaithful then I doubt it will happen now." Leliana shook her head, her words unbreakable in their absolute conviction. It would've seemed arrogant if Solona didn't know how completely right she was. The redhead had spent most of her lifetime ferreting out secrets, if the Hero had strayed even once her lover would've found out – if not by report then simply by looking into her eyes. But the warden had never wanted anyone else. Of course, she'd been awfully busy all that time.

"Warden strongholds and Deep Roads don't exactly hold a lot of temptation. Val Royeaux on the other hand seems to be full of creative debauchery," the mage observed. She'd spotted two brothels in the main part of the city and was fairly sure that there was a third disguised as an inn. _The Quaint House indeed._

"Then it is probably for the best that tomorrow the worst of such temptation departs, yes?" The redhead hummed thoughtfully, pleased with her scheme's side benefit.

"Isabela is not that irresistible, my love." Solona rolled her eyes and then twisted swiftly beneath the sheets, pinning the bard beneath her.

"Not alone, she isn't." The trapped woman's eyes flashed with the smoldering heat of experience, a smirk darting across her lips. Every so often she played the wild card, triggering memories that the Hero longed both to forget and relive. _The smell of rum and old wood and brine that was the sea and so much more. Gull cries mingling with echoing calls from human mouths. Strands of red and black flickering in candlelight while a melody of intertwined laughter and skin filled her senses._

Leliana used the moment of distraction to burst upward. The rogue's muscles and reflexes were still toned to near perfection and she expertly reversed their positions, gazing triumphantly down on the mage.

"That's cheating!" The warden protested, more irritated with herself than the trick.

"It is the Grand Game, beloved. No one plays fair." Anyone who saw Leliana's wicked smile flashing then in the dark would've known she could never be called Holy.


	5. Act II:i  With the Tide

Morrigan had been known by many titles over the years. Witch of the Wilds, Scornful Sorceress and Occult Advisor were the ones spoken to her face. She was reasonably sure many more existed that featured words like 'ice,' 'demon,' and 'scary bitch.' The point was, no one would ever think to call her Affectionate Mother. She preferred it that way. To keep Kieran safe it was best no one knew just how large a portion of her heart he'd consumed. Her independent life had begun with fighting the control of her mother and at the time she'd thought there could be no greater purpose. Then she'd held her newborn son for the first time. Kieran: little dark one. Tainted from his very conception and filled with the power of a dragon's soul but more perfect, innocent and pure than anything she'd seen in her life. In that moment the fight against her mother took on a whole new meaning, as did every other aspect of the world.

Running her fingers fondly through dark hair beneath her hand she allowed herself to indulge in the warmth of his responding smile. The boy was already so tall, when he leaned against her he rested his head on her shoulder. He was open with his affection, a trait that had to have come from birth since it seemed he was teaching it to her instead of vice versa. They walked to the side court of the Grand Cathedral, Kieran waving occasionally to servants and sisters he recognized. He was safe here, safer even than in Halamshiral. Empress Celene was a powerful ally and protector but Leliana? The boyish bard of a decade past – whom she'd simply _adored_ taunting – had vanished. The Dragon Age finally had the Divine it deserved, a woman forged in blood and fire.

"Will you be gone long this time?" Kieran looked up at his mother, the same question he asked every time she had to leave. Whether he was about to watch her step into a carriage, slip into an Eluvian or take wing as a dragon, it was all he ever asked.

"The singing that has begun is my clock," Morrigan tilted her ear toward the faint echoes of the Chant of Light that reached them even here beyond the walls, "Before they finish and start over, I will have to be back."

 _With or without success._ She added mentally. It didn't seem necessary to point out it could be as much as two weeks. She'd been gone far longer before. The boy nodded solemnly but the tighter grip of his arm around her waist was both silent acceptance and protest.

As they approached the assembly of companions near the gates she singled out the more familiar figures. Zevran was laughing with the filthy woman from Denerim. The younger Hawke was in conference with her sister, smiling various assurances but unable to hide worry near her eyes. The Inquisitor and Seeker were also lost in some conversation. In her time at Skyhold Morrigan had grown familiar with the sight of the two women absorbed in their own private world. She'd always assumed they were discussing the best way to sharpen a sword or eviscerate giants. However, neither subject required a hand resting casually on the other's arm, nor the familiar but intimate touch of fingers brushing hair away from eyes.

When the Inquisitor leaned close and whispered something that made the Nevarran laugh, Morrigan was positive something crucial had shifted between them. It was rather like the change between Leliana and the Warden all those years ago. Except those two had been radiating ill-controlled lust for weeks before finally surrendering to nature. In contrast, the disciplined Seeker and responsible Inquisitor had clearly been more circumspect. As if sensing a spectator to the private moment Eve's eyes darted up, searching for the audience. Her gaze lit on Morrigan long enough to understand exactly what the witch had seen and a sheepish smile crossed her face, turning to a grin of delight when she spotted the boy at her side.

"Eve!" Kieran burst into a matching smile and nearly raced forward. He stopped himself – barely – and looked to his mother for permission. A subtle nod was all he needed and he darted from her side. She half expected him to cannon into the warrior and knock her over with all that enthusiasm but he managed to skid to a halt, executing a respectful bow instead. It was Trevelyan who pulled him into a hug and swung him around, perhaps the only person ever in Kieran's life to take such liberties. Morrigan had never heard that particular laugh until he'd made friends with the famed Inquisitor. At first the powerful woman's interest in her son had seemed suspicious. That gradually eased to worrisome. Over time it became merely puzzling and now she was simply pleased. In a life that would never be ordinary, it was good to see Kieran could have something normal like a friend. Granted, a friend who spent her time slaying darkspawn, hunting dragons, sealing holes in the sky and leading the single most powerful alliance in all Thedas but that was probably as normal as their life got.

Certain that her son was thoroughly occupied and well in hand (though probably learning something incredibly inappropriate), Morrigan moved to Bethany's side as soon as she was alone. The young warden had grown better at keeping her emotions from bleeding across her face but it was still far too easy to see stress drawing her features tight.

"You wish you were going with us?" the witch enquired, following her associate's gaze to watch the final preparations.

"Hardly. They can be Aveline's headache for a while," she nodded towards Isabela and Hawke as they broke into yet another argument that was clearly a prelude to something lewd, "But I would prefer you weren't going either. I don't like having to handle our work with Solona alone."

"The majority is done. 'Tis a simple matter of staying attentive and continuing as I instructed. You've studied the magic a hundred times over in the late hours. I can tell by the drips of wax you keep getting on the pages," Morrigan's infamous eyebrow arched in scolding amusement.

"I could make a mistake. I'm not half the mage you are," Bethany frowned. What once might have been mournful insecurity in her voice had shifted to a statement of fact. She knew her weaknesses.

"No, you're not," the older mage agreed, "But you're a warden. This matter is literally in your blood."

"There's still so much we don't know. What if something goes wrong?" The only tell of her nerves was the way she began to worry her lower lip. Morrigan once more cursed the upbringing that had burdened the child with so many doubts. Granted, she hadn't been trapped in a Circle and taught to fear her powers but she'd also never been given the chance to truly rejoice in them. Becoming a warden had clearly done much to teach her confidence and control but, dammit, she needed to go out and blow something up just for sheer bloody pleasure.

"Then the Calling remains as it did before," a harsh reply snapped the girl out of her anxieties, "And anything we do not know will not be answered in a mere two weeks."

"Right. Sorry." Bethany visibly pushed aside the fevered workings of her imagination. She was a warden. Wardens did impossible things. She squared herself, straightening for the task at hand and Morrigan – not for the first time – saw the family resemblance between the two cousins.

"Tis also not entirely up to you. The Hero bears the real weight of this burden. She has the most at risk," Morrigan thought of everything Solona had won and how it all balanced so precariously on the knife edge of the Calling, "And I have never known that woman to lose anything. She'll hardly begin with something this important."

* * *

The Val Royeaux harbormaster had been obscenely happy to see Captain Isabela's ship and crew departing. Aveline had recognized the look of ecstatic relief which conveyed that today most of his reasons for drinking would set sail over the horizon. The Guard Captain clearly recalled what life was like in Kirkwall when Isabela got her ship. Hawke had clearly thought it a sweet and romantic gesture but couldn't have imagined the chaos she unleashed. The only thing worse than the Rivaini whore was her _plus_ an entire crew of loyal pirates. Even Corff was grateful to see city guards show up once that lot got to drinking.

The Queen of the Eastern Seas had always been an almighty blowhard in Aveline's opinion. But as the ship smoothly angled to sea and caught fair wind there could be no arguing that Isabela was the captain she claimed to be. She commanded her crew with the sort of confident control that could keep an entire garrison in perfect running order. She just did it with a lot more swearing.

"Anselmo, get that bloody cargo below!" the order came from above, but not the direction one might have thought.

Aveline had expected the captain to maintain a stance at the helm, steering the ship and representing authority to everyone. Apparently, that wasn't Isabela's style. Rather, the dark-skinned rogue climbed and swung along the footropes that festooned the masts, moving with the speed and agility of an acrobat as she checked knots and secured rigging herself. These efforts were interspersed with muttering, curses and more yelling.

"Jan, Brand, sweat the halyard – it's too fucking loose up here!"

Ropes and wood creaked with strain as the mainsail swelled with the chosen wind. It had been years since Aveline had been at sea. Since escaping the Blight, in fact. As the entire ship lifted and rolled she found herself instinctively bracing for a fight. It was unsettling, to say the least. Though it seemed she was still better than some. A familiar figure was already bent double over the railing.

"Left-hand! Get your name out your trousers and up the mast!" the loud order came from directly above the redhead and she moved aside just before Isabela flipped smoothly to the deck. The woman radiated an unusual mix of pleasure and pride. Unusual because she was enjoying something productive and worthwhile for a change instead of her typically amoral fair. It made her look different. Responsible, possibly?

"She still gets seasick the first day." The Captain looked over to where Hawke was clearly miserable, her affection amused but not without sympathy. Ten years ago that expression would have been impossible. Maker's Breath, ten years ago Aveline would've sooner slit her wrists and offered her blood to a Maleficar rather than see the two women together. She'd couldn't be happier to have been wrong.

"You're smiling, big girl," Isabela observed and moved to lean on the railing. She chose a spot several yards away from Hawke but close enough to keep an eye on her.

"You've changed, pirate. More than I would've thought." Aveline leaned backwards against the rail, too suspicious of this crew to turn her back on it yet.

"It's the hat isn't it? Everyone loves the feathers," the pirate smirked, adjusting the brim rakishly. How did it not fly off her head when she was leaping about in the rigging? Had to be special straps or something, probably meant for keeping it secure in storms and such.

"No, that is definitely not different for you," Aveline laughed, "I vividly recall having to investigate the break in of a hat shop in High Town. I had to send my guards around the corner just so they wouldn't see all the evidence you left behind."

"I take offense at that. I'm a meticulous thief," Isabela objected.

"Yes but a terrible vandal. You didn't steal anything, you crazy whore. You tried on all the hats and then left a bottle of whiskey and your small clothes behind. Why you had to take your undergarments off," the redhead held up a hand to stop any answer, "I truly do not want to know. Had you stolen something I'm sure it would've been impossible to prove. But I'd wager you actually bought this."

"You'd lose, sweets. I took it off another captain. Technically, I took his entire head but I only decided to keep this bit." The smile on her dark lips was too sweet for such words. Aveline tried to find any part of her that was surprised by the answer but at every level of her mind was simply the thought: I've seen her fight, she'd do it.

A low moan of misery distracted both women and they watched Hawke throw up again. Her breakfast had already come and gone. By the look of it she was now down to last night's wine.

"Speaking of change, how's married life treating you? Still getting plowed more often than a rented field, I hope." Once Isabela was sure that the Champion wasn't dying she turned her attention back to her favorite frenemy.

"Donnic and I are very happy. Perfect, really." The redhead thought fondly of her patient husband. He'd accepted the news that she had to leave on an unknown mission for an unknown amount of time with nothing more than an understanding smile. She'd said that an old friend asked for help and that was all it took. Of course, if she'd known the reason Bethany sent for her was because the Champion of Kirkwall was about to take off on yet another suicidal and insane adventure she might have reconsidered. _Who am I kidding? No I wouldn't._

"Then where are all the tiny ginger girls that are supposed to be running around terrifying the boys of Kirkwall? I expected you to have half a litter by now! Don't tell me there's no powder in the keg," Isabela's eyes widened into a parody of horror.

"Kirkwall is recovering from a rebellion and war, it is no place for a family. Not yet. There's plenty of time later to think about such things." Aveline tried to keep the blush from burning her cheeks but she knew it was there, she could tell by the glittering delight in the Rivaini's eyes.

"Tick-tock. This is husband number two and you're getting up in years. If you don't get busy the baby shop is going to have a going out of business sale." Isabela wasn't truly cruel at heart, she simply adored torturing the guardswoman. She had from the first day they met. Aveline could still vividly recall Hawke introducing them at the Hanged Man and the exotic sailor had immediately asked if the carpet matched the drapes. _'And if so, do they need a good cleaning?'_ The appalling words set the tone for what would truly be an epically tense relationship.

"Isabela, if you're so eager to see children terrorizing Kirkwall you can bloody well have your own." Aveline was joking but she actually lay awake some nights worried about just such a thing. So long as Isabela was with Hawke it didn't seem likely but she'd had nightmares. Tiny dark pirates with blood marks across their faces . . .

"I would, big girl. Problem is I still haven't met a fellow who's half the man you are." The Captain shot her a trademark pout, the sort that generally had men across the bar and buying her a drink in three seconds flat. Aveline used to find it shocking and offensive. Now she just laughed.

"You've got your hands full nursing Hawke as it is." The warrior nodded to where the Champion had peeled herself off the railing and settled down amidst the ropes and grappling hooks. She was sheet white and clearly about to pass out on something sharp.

"Flaming Ass, Hawke," the rogue muttered beneath her breath, catching Aveline's smug expression, "Don't gloat, Captain Man Hands. At least my tits see plenty of use."

 _Cheeky whore._ The Guard Captain smiled as she watched Isabela stride rapidly across the deck and scoop her lover out of danger.

"Celso! Help me get this damned chunder bucket to bed," the pirate commanded. She didn't look precisely regal with Hawke's slack body hanging off one shoulder but when she hit the stairs and swept up the entire Champion's length by herself, Aveline had to admit she looked like a queen.


	6. Act II:ii Tranquil

The ride to Montsimmard from Val Royeaux was easy but long. It took the better part of the day but also managed to wind through some of the prettiest country in Orlais. For much of the trek they could see the shimmering blue waters of Lake Celestine and the Inquisitor briefly cursed that they had only packed rations to eat rather than a picnic. Sparkling water, soft grass, some fruit and a less offensive Orlesian cheese, (not that despair one that she'd almost spat out in Halamshiral – how do they eat anything that smells like feet?) throw in a good bottle of wine and suddenly this errand became downright pleasure.

 _Mission. Not errand. This isn't fetching your sister's new dress from the tailor while she primps for yet another suitor. You're on a quest that may determine the fate of mages in Thedas. Uhm, again._ Eve tried to lecture herself into a more serious mind frame but it simply wouldn't work. The day was too fine, her mood too pleased and the company too perfect.

Darting a glance to the Seeker riding alongside she saw a look of distant contemplation. Cassandra never had a problem being serious. Ordinarily that would annoy Trevelyan but the Nevarran looked beautiful when she was thinking. And fighting and praying and smiling and . . . _Maker's damnation! Get a grip._ Logically, the Inquisitor knew she was in high spirits for several good reasons:

She'd woken to morning dawn light, gentle bells and the warmth of a body close to her own in a comfortable  bed instead of rocky ground, chilly air and Iron Bull snoring.

She'd been delighted to see old friends like Leliana, Hawke and Morrigan. Kieran was a lovely bonus.

To top it all off, they had a simple task that afforded her plenty of time traveling alone with her Seeker.

The Inquisitor was fond of all her companions and she was always grateful for their help. But since knowledge of her relationship with Cassandra spread through Skyhold (which took all of about twelve minutes past the first dawn that found them in the same bed) there had been times she'd rather gouge out her eyes with hot daggers and feed them to a wyvern rather than face their company.

Blackwall and Vivienne tended to be silent, conspicuously so. Blackwall kept opening his mouth to start a conversation, then blushing too much and pushing on. It was painful for them both. While Eve had felt that the Iron Lady was fiercely judging the back of her head, it turned out she was far more communicative with Cassandra in private. The Nevarran disclosed that she'd had a conversation with Madame de Fer which included the phrases 'not entirely irregular,' 'politically advantageous,' and 'a comfortable pillow, just below the hips; it's a small change but, my dear, the effect!' That was how Eve first learned there could be things worse than silence.

Dorian was surprisingly tactful if persistent in his humor. He just seemed to enjoy needling the Seeker too much. He delighted in watching Cassandra blush almost as much as Eve herself. There was a reason she and Pavus became friends so fast. Varric merely liked to tease her when he caught her watching the Seeker closer than she should. _"So, Your Inquisitorship, someone catching your eye these days?"_ Fairly mild compared to what she knew the descriptive narrator probably wanted to be saying. Maker only knew what he was writing.

The others weren't so subtle. More like blind druffalos with brain damage. Cole asked endless questions and if he was ignored he went poking inside heads for answers. _'Basking. Breathing. Buoyant. Born on beats and breasts -.'_ Eve shut him up as quickly as possible and decided it was safer to answer him directly about sleeping arrangements. Iron Bull could turn almost any battle move into a sexual suggestion. Sera had an unholy fascination with underwear. Both of them were obsessed with anatomy and technique. _Inquisibutt. Ripe peaches. Ugh!_ Sera could create innuendo out of clean air. Bull was nearly as bad but had just enough of a brotherly relationship with the Inquisitor to not torture her. He loved poking at Cassandra instead. It sounded like the Seeker defended herself just fine but it was still damned distracting to overhear when she was supposed to be keeping watch for wraiths and rogue Templars. _Maker! The time she told Bull we already had-? I nearly walked into an ice trap._

"Now you're the one lost in thought." Cassandra's playful allegretto of a voice lured Eve from her musing.

"Just counting the reasons I'm happy to be with you," Trevelyan gave an honest but simplified summary of her thoughts.

"Certain you are not thinking of the witch's boy? You have not stopped smiling since you saw him this morning," the Seeker pointed out her own theory. While she was wrong at the moment the comment made Eve realize she'd been watched more closely than she expected. The Nevarran noticed small things that everyone else simply ignored.

"I didn't know he'd be there. I'd hoped, since seeing Morrigan, but it's hard to predict with her." Treveylyan wondered in the back of her mind if she was sounding defensive. She knew her fellow warrior had some deeply held opinions about the Witch of the Wilds, it was possible they extended towards her offspring. She wasn't about to get into an argument about being friends with an eleven year old boy. The distant spire of Montsimmard's Circle tower rose on the horizon and the Inquisitor subtly nudged her horse to quicker speed.

"And you just happen to carry dragon scales with you at all times?" Cassandra wasn't buying the deflection but her teasing tone also held no accusation or judgment. Yes, she'd definitely been observing more carefully than Eve thought. _Busted. No point denying it._

"Did you see the way his face lit up? Like a miser holding a sovereign!" Eve grinned as she brought the picture to mind.

She'd brought the souvenir of Hakkon specifically in hopes of passing it on to Kieran. She'd made a point of giving him a piece of every dragon she faced, the shiny scales as colorful and unique as the monsters themselves. Was it because of the old god's touch in his soul? Or just a simple fascination that young boys have with dragons? Either way, the two had bonded over countless hours of dragon talk in the evenings at Skyhold. It had been a way of escaping the pressures of leadership and responsibility, much like chess with Dorian or drinking with Sera. She'd loved sitting in Morrigan's room, telling Kieran stories of the dragon battles, earning the occasional warning glance from the witch when she quoted Iron Bull's battle cries.

"Do you spoil all children or just the ones who've been possessed by gods?" The Seeker's eyebrow twitched challengingly.

"All children are possessed, Cassandra. My nieces and nephews, for example, are demons. Kieran is special," Eve managed to answer without admitting to too much. She'd never hear the end of it if Cassandra found out that she'd had Harritt make custom Inquisition gear for the boy. Or that she'd let Dennet train him to ride the Dracolisk.

"You're a steel coated marshmallow, Inquisitor." The dark haired warrior shook her head with a laugh, her eyes glittering approval.

"And you're an armor clad romantic," Eve shot back with a wink before reining in her horse.

They had reached the gates of the Montsimmard Circle, clearly damaged in the rebellion but under repair. She swung off her mount, eyeing the scorched earth that had been carefully replanted with roses. She wasn't sure if it was tragic that the mages were rebuilding their own prisons or touching that the people of Thedas simply wanted to hide their scars. In either case, the roses were beautiful.

The apprentice that opened the doors was suitably impressed to see Inquisition armor and nearly fell over himself urging them inside. He apologetically guided them around several glyphs and traps in the entryway (apparently many of the mages were still expecting a return of the Templars). His over-eager offers of tea, wine, ale, juice, water, fresh clothes, bathing water, sharpening stones, and armor polish might have continued into a list of every item in the kitchens if Cassandra hadn't finally held up a hand.

"Thank you, your hospitality is overwhelming," she kept her face straight, despite Eve's stifled snicker, "But we are here to see a mage called Solace. Where can we find her?"

"Solace? Of course! Absolutely! She's in the Enchanter's Laboratories on the fourth floor I can send for her if you want to rest from your journey. Or I can take you to her, it's not far and you might like to stretch your legs. Or –,"

"We'll find her. Thank you. Don't disturb yourself," the Inquisitor quickly interrupted, resting a calming hand on the man's shoulder. _You're disturbed enough as it is._ The way his eye manically twitched suggested he'd had a few bad lightning spells in his past.

Cassandra Pentaghast knew every Circle tower by heart. In over 20 years of service to the Seekers and the Divines she'd had cause to visit them all. Repeatedly. The Inquisitor briefly wondered how they'd pick Solace out in the lab seeing as they knew only her age, gender and name. She needn't have worried; once they opened the door they found only three mages inside and two were men. The lone woman was bent over a rune crafting table, concentrating on the lyrium and not even looking up as the warriors approached.

"Solace?" Trevelyan tested out the name, seeing the blonde at the rune table hesitate before looking up. Too focused on her work or simply trying to buy time?

"I am Solace. Can I help you?" The familiar, flat inflections of the Tranquil greeted them as the woman turned to them both. The Inquisitor did a rapid analysis of her appearance, cataloging details for future thought. Slight build, like many Circle mages, and clearly too tall to have any elf blood. Light blonde hair that reached her shoulders in haphazard waves and curls . Hazel eyes, lighter than Cassandra's (whose eyes Eve didn't have time to think about right now but she did anyway) and flecked with both green and gold. More important than the color was the emotionless gaze, staring at the Inquisitor yet through her as well.

"Yes, we were hoping to speak with you. You might help us solve a puzzle we've been working on," Eve kept the explanation vague. There were other mages in the room and she didn't want to cause a stir.

"I am mostly consumed with my work. I don't know what help I can be but I will do my best to be useful." A gesture towards the enchantments strewn across her workstation conveyed Solace's general preoccupation, typical of the efficient if obsessive work ethic of her kind. Then there was that word: 'useful,' Eve had come to understand that was the highest achievement Tranquil strived for, to be of use. So far she seemed no different from the rest of the Tranquil mages they'd met. Perhaps it came and went in spurts? Months of perfect tranquility and then a sudden explosive urge to punch people? Maybe the reports were just . . . wrong.

"Thank you, if you could come with us -," Cassandra moved to guide the young woman away but she didn't budge.

"I am in the middle of a sensitive enchantment. If I leave now the lyrium will be wasted," Solace explained, pure logic dictating that she refuse their request.

"We can wait," the Inquisitor shrugged. Arguing with a Tranquil was pointless. She'd once tried to convince Helisma to surrender some poison spider glands for an antivenom and the woman adamantly refused. Not because she was stubborn in the traditional sense but because she simply wouldn't let anything interfere with her work.

"Thank you. If you'd care to be comfortable the library is down the hall. I should not require more than twenty minutes." With that final piece of information Solace turned back to her work as though she'd never been interrupted at all.

"Sounds good." Trevelyan cast Cassandra a helpless look and was answered with a shrug. The Inquisitor and Seeker had become, for all intents and purposes, invisible. Without any other options they both left the lab and found the door to the library. Within lay shelf upon shelf of dusty tomes, a few pieces of utilitarian furniture and a bit of surprise.

"You must have missed me terribly, my dear! Hunting me down so far when you could've simply sent a note." Vivienne paused in her work to greet the two friends.

"I would have if I'd known you were here. What's an Imperial Enchanter doing slumming in the Circles?" The Inquisitor smiled, delighted by the unexpected and familiar face. Vivienne had left Skyhold just a few weeks before to work with the rebuilt College of Magi. Eve hadn't thought to see her again until some political need drew her back to the Inquisition.

"A request from Divine Victoria, dear. She suggested that the College form a central library of the magical tomes currently scattered about the Circles. Most of them have been abandoned and destroyed by looters but I've been gathering what books and artifacts I can find." Vivienne airily gestured toward a stack of manuscripts she'd been poring through.

"I see. Items we wouldn't want to lose, I take it? Probably the kind that might get painfully stolen or damaged if, say, someone announced Circle reforms that caused panic?" Trevelyan knew Leliana liked to be ten steps ahead of everyone else.

"What a terribly cynical and shrewd assumption. Fortunately, one the Divine and I happened to share," The dark woman allowed herself a hint of smile that did nothing to soften her proud demeanor, "And you? Has peril brought the Inquisitor to sleepy Montsimmard?"

"Not so directly, no. We're also doing some work for the Divine." Eve shared a glance with the Seeker, not immediately certain how much information to share, even with an old friend.

"Her skirt has barely brushed the Sunburst Throne and she already has us all jumping through hoops. I don't know whether to be irritated or impressed." Vivienne's arch tone suggested that she was both and not terribly pleased about it.

"You were in this Circle for years," Cassandra recalled the facts of the enchanter's life, "Do you know much of the mage called Solace?"

Trevelyan held her breath, hoping Vivienne wouldn't immediately divine their purpose. She had been away from the Circle for years, perhaps she didn't know of the strange reports that had reached Leliana. If she knew the girl, however, she might know who her allies were. No mage could break Tranquility alone.

"The Circle baby? That's what they're called when children so young are abandoned, you see. Magic showed up remarkably young in that one, she was raising havoc right from her crib," Vivienne managed a hint of genuine smile at some past memory, "We should've taken it as a sign of things to come, I suppose – she was an unusually _willful_ child. She once refused to utter a word for three weeks because she misspoke a nature spell. When she finally broke her silence it was to pronounce the spell with such precision that an entire tree erupted in the class room."

"Were you here when she was made Tranquil?" Eve pushed their luck a little further.

"I -," the enchanter's face clouded darkly, her usual superior detachment giving way to hints of frustration, "Yes. It wasn't a decision I agreed with but the Templars were howling for blood. She had strong gifts but she'd passed harrowing. She could control her magic. She just couldn't be controlled by anyone else."

It clearly pained Vivienne to admit her recollection of the case. An outspoken advocate of the Circles and Templars and the need for mages to be policed, yet even she could recognize when power had been abused. The Inquisitor knew that Vivienne would choose to keep the Circle intact if she had the authority. Who knew? Maybe the mages would voluntarily remain in the homes they'd known for so long. All that mattered was that they would have the choice. Eve knew her mage ally was still irritated that she'd endorsed Leliana for Divine. Their stubborn wills and political power might have been equal but their ideals were diametrically opposed. The Inquisitor had been certain that Sister Nightingale was right for the job. Vivienne could probably change the Chantry for now but only Leliana could change it forever.

Before the Inquisitor could move onto any questions about Solace's fellow mages or friends, the door to the library swung open and an apprentice rushed to Vivienne. The mage hadn't called Montsimmard home for years but she was still treated like the First Enchanter. She listened to a rushed report and then turned to the two Inquisition warriors with something near pity. With just a dash of patient scorn. Basically, her trademark look.

"My dears, did either of you identify yourselves to Solace or tell her why you were here?" One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose high.

"We did not," the Seeker shook her head. They'd debated several times what to say to the Tranquil when they found her. The Chantry sent us? We need to know if you completed the Rite of Reversal? Divine Victoria thinks you might be a symbol for the mages? There was no simple way to explain that they had to investigate _her_ without her knowing.

"I see. Then I fear she has rather come to her own conclusions. It would seem she's knocked out two other enchanters and fled through the rear orchard with a sack of stolen runes." Vivienne seldom allowed any emotion or sincerity to cross her stoic features but right now Eve was certain that the woman was laughing at them behind her mask.

"A Tranquil definitely cannot do that," Cassandra remarked, surprise widening her eyes a fraction.

"No," Vivienne agreed, clearly smirking, "Yet she just did."

 _So much for a simple task._ Eve frowned and bolted from the room, racing for the stairs to begin the chase. They'd finished the first half of Leliana's task, at least. They definitely knew the girl wasn't Tranquil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's the first OC.


	7. Act II:iii Distress

A day of violent retching had left Hawke feeling like she'd gone another round with the Arishok. Her knuckles ached from clutching the railing until there were splinters beneath her fingernails. In the dark of the cabin she managed to brush a hand over her stomach, checking for the familiar scar. Still there. No open wound or bandages or stitches. This wasn't that night years ago. Her memory then was hazy from blood loss and drugged with Anders' herbs but she could recall bits and pieces. Especially at times like this, when her head was muddled and her body in pain, she remembered . . .

_"_ _Dammit, blondie, stop the blood!" The voice sounded like it was coming through thick walls. Was it even in the same room?_

_"_ _It's not as easy as that, you have to stop her moving!" Someone was pushing her down, trying to pin her. Never get pinned. Once you're trapped, you're dead. Roll, dammit! Every movement sent pain ripping through her body like knives cutting flesh and she had to get away from it._

_"_ _Hawke, you won! You won, calm down. The Qunari are leaving." Urgent commands trying to be gentle, more hands pulling her down. Qunari leaving. No! They'll take her! Over my dead body. . . Is that what happened? Did she die? Sweat was prickling over her skin, raising goosebumps in the stinging air._

_"_ _She's going into shock. Get more blankets." The voices were even more distant, barely reaching her ears as she traveled further away. She couldn't feel the pain anymore. Or the heat or cold. She'd died. She'd failed._

_A hand barely brushing the fringe of hair off her face woke her up. Not enough to move or even open her eyes but she knew she was awake because the pain returned. The heat of it wrapped from her shoulder clear to her hip, tendrils reaching out to cause random sharp stabs. If she didn't move there was less. The room felt dark, even if she could have opened her eyes she wouldn't be able to see._

_Something woke her. Someone. She felt the presence of a person standing over her, close enough to touch. Nothing was said. Hawke heard the shifts in breathing that could almost become sound if they knew the words. There was no voice or face or touch for Hawke to know. Only the hint of whiskey and spice on a breeze that brushed her skin when lips leaned close to her forehead. Was this a dream? Then the familiar scent pulled away and the throbbing agony of her wound was nothing compared to the sucking hole she felt in her chest._

_Hawke had said and heard and seen farewells all her life; she knew the words, silences, the very feeling of Goodbye. She'd just never been so helpless. She discerned the sound of something heavy being moved on the table beside her bed. Paper being folded, scraping against wood, the heavy thing moved once more. Hawke tried to move, to open her eyes, to capture some control of this moment and fight it from happening. Was it a nightmare? She found her voice, raw and painful in her throat. A weak moan of protest was drowned beneath the creak of the door opening. Fresh panic shot through her blood and her sound grew stronger, lips and tongue moving enough to form a cry just as the door slammed shut._

"Bela!" Hawke bolted upright in bed, head spinning, stomach screaming in agony at the sudden movement. Fresh sweat poured along her cheek and her muscles quivered.

"Careful! You'll make yourself sicker and there's nothing left inside you." The chiding words arrived at the same time as arms wrapping around Hawke's shoulders, guiding her to lie back down. The shadows gave way to just enough moonlight for Hawke to see the Captain rise up on one elbow beside her. Reaching to the bedside shelf Isabela grabbed a flask and pulled the cork, holding the neck to Hawke's mouth.

"Come on, you need it," the pirate gently commanded. No arguing with that. Hawke obliged, taking several long drinks before she realized what it was and choked.

"Water?!" she started to pull away but found a firm hand holding her in place. The delicate fingers grazing her cheek were soft but unyielding.

"Not a lot of fresh juice out here, sweets, now drink up. No ale for you until you get your sea stomach back." Isabela's smirk curled in her words. Knowing she'd never win this fight the Champion surrendered and drank the rest of the flask. A visceral memory rose: trapped in bed, Aveline and Anders taking turns forcing liquids down her throat. No matter how much she wished during that time, she never actually imagined it could be Isabela instead.

The face hovering above her was a portrait of casual but affectionate amusement. Only because Hawke knew what to look for could she spy the hint of concern in the line by her eyes. She also saw how Isabela's gaze was dissecting her own, peeling through her thoughts as easily as paper. The sailor must have heard something in Hawke's waking cry of her name, a hint of the dream that she'd faded into. The rich amber of her eyes flickered with underlying regret the way candlelight wavers in a breeze. It was easy to know what neither would say: they never expected to be here.

Thank the Maker they were.

"I'm fine, Bela." Hawke set aside the empty flask. Her assurance allowed the other woman to stay either in the past or present, whichever she needed. The upward twist at the corner of Isabela's mouth promised she was still a woman who preferred living in the moment.

"You'd better be, sweets. I don't intend to let you spend the whole trip in bed," the dark rogue lay back down, settling in comfortably beside her Champion, "Or maybe I do."

* * *

Inquisitor Trevelyan had seen and heard of many brothels during her travels. Growing up, she knew of three in Ostwick alone. One, The Quivering Bloom, was where she set the record for the most activities in a single night. It was possibly the most expensive night of her life but completely worth it just to shame her brothers. Over the years she became familiar with many more establishments by the stories of her companions and the occasional local legend. The Pearl, White Rose and Blooming Rose tended to crop up in Varric and Sera's stories quite frequently. Iron Bull was fond of one called The Hammer and Nail. The Maiden's Voyage seemed like Isabela's sort of place while Madame Mona's Maison de Tolérance held some unspecified history for Blackwall. She almost went into Orzammar's Nug-a-Nug until Varric convinced her it wasn't a pet store. Thanks to Dorian she even knew of a brothel in Minrathous: Quicumque Vult, which he assured her was terribly clever.

Eve usually found Thedas' thriving sex industry a source of amusement and occasional wonder. The creativity alone was impressive. But tonight she was in no mood for clever innuendo or attractively bawdy displays. She'd lost her patience hours before while she and Cassandra tried to track Solace through Montsimmard's central square. The mage only had a twenty minute head start but had used stolen runes to cause chaos in the market. Scorch marks, mud puddles and panicking people were a good way to cover tracks. By the time they found the girl's trail it was already falling dark and city guards had to be enlisted.

Solace had run away from the Circle four times before, each escape further and longer than the last. The experience showed clearly as she'd doubled back, climbed walls and crossed part of the city in a brewer's cart. When Trevelyan and the Seeker finally caught up to the cart, well past midnight, it was parked outside The Nightflower Garden. Eve had never in her life been so irritated on entering a brothel.

"How many whores does this city need?" Cassandra demanded as they stepped into the business and found it utterly swarming with bodies.

"As many as the soldiers want." The Inquisitor scowled, seeing as much armor as flesh. There had to be over a hundred people in the salon, never mind those who were off in more private rooms. _Damned mage._ Eve began pushing her way through the crowd to do a sweep of the room.

"Have you seen – don't do that! Move aside! Have you – Holy Maker! Touch me like that again and I'll cut off your hand!" Trevelyan shoved past a knot of patrons, gauging their levels of drunkenness by which ones tried to grope her.

"Ooh! A new 'soldier'!" One of the worst examples stumbled into her path, "Fancy armor, pretty thing, take it off some big boy, did you? What's your name?"

"I'm the Inquisitor." Eve didn't know it was possible to stand straighter than her usual military stance but pride and affront had jerked her spine so tight she might snap. Killing drunks wouldn't get her any closer to finding the mage. It was bad for the reputation of the Inquisition. It strained relations with local law. _But if this idiot dares try to touch me, so help me Maker –_

"No, you're not," the drunk shook his head, making himself dizzy for a moment, "THAT'S the Inquisitor."

Eve followed his pointing finger in confusion before lighting on a figure across the room. She spotted a woman in a black mask wearing an open cloak emblazoned with the symbol of the Inquisition. When she moved it became obvious she wore little else. A few artfully placed leather straps were all that sufficed as clothing and attached to one - in case there could be any doubt as to who'd be asking the questions – was a whip. The warrior's brain stuttered, forgetting about drunks and mages and missions and trying to comprehend what she saw. _I'm a whore? They made a whore Inquisitor?_ She wasn't even sure if she should be flattered or horrified.

"There – Circle robes!" Cassandra called from behind Eve, shaking her from her shock and pushing forward. The Seeker was right, a hooded figure in distinctive white robes was moving swiftly towards the stairs. The Inquisitor leapt onto a table and, ignoring the protest of customers, jumped from surface to surface to cross the room over heads. She landed and caught the robed mage by the shoulder.

"That's it! Got you!" she spun her quarry just as Cassandra arrived at her side. Both women cursed when they lit on the hooded face.

"No need to get rough, honey, I'm here all night." The heavily painted whore winked.

"Who are you?" Eve didn't even care enough to apologize for the confusion. In fact, her grip on the woman's shoulder tightened as she pushed her further away from the crowd.

"I'm the Enchantress, of course. Five sovereigns gets you a magical night you won't forget." The fake mage played her role to the hilt, ignorant of the danger in teasing two seething warriors. Trevelyan realized she was hitting her threshold. The rage was beginning to tighten her every muscle for a fight. One more irritant, one more frustration and she would have to kill someone.

"Have you seen a real mage come through here? A young woman?" Cassandra put a hand on Eve's shoulder, subtly helping the Inquisitor get hold of herself.

"Are you kidding? Look around, darlings. They're everywhere. Once the cages opened those frightened little animals came racing out and all they wanted was a bit of sin before they died." The 'mage' waved a hand towards the room, flashing some of the most elaborately decorated nails either warrior had ever seen. Complaining noises from around the room were beginning to filter through to their attention. Rampaging across tables and cornering employees had a way of upsetting brothel owners.

"A blonde. She's in her early 20's and is called Solace." The Seeker supplied facts quickly; instinctively aware that trouble was bearing down on them. No bordello was complete without a small army of burly men to supply security.

"Solace?" The whore stopped trying to be seductive and looked genuinely concerned, "What do you want with her?"

"Then you know her! Was she here? Today?" Cassandra demanded but the fake mage set her mouth in a thin line, refusing to speak.

"No harassing the ladies! You want something you pay for it!" A musclebound oaf split the crowd and reached for the accosted woman. Eve barely took her eyes off her captive as she turned and slammed her head into the nose of the intruder. The enforcer dropped to the ground screaming, trying to staunch the blood pouring over his face.

The Inquisitor unsheathed her sword and that whisper of sound was enough to silence the entire room. Weapons had been drawn here before; disputes over tabs, duels for a favorite, drunken disagreements about size etc. Never had the patrons of this brothel seen anything like the Inquisitor's sword. Still, they knew what it was. It was leadership and power and death all rolled into one and if they weren't in a house of whores many would've begun uttering prayers to the Maker.

"What about Solace?" Trevelyan kept her voice even, her attention focused only on the frightened 'Enchantress.'

"She came through hours ago," the cornered woman admitted, "Said the Templars were after her again so I gave her a change of clothes and let her out the back."

"That was awfully kind of you. Do you usually help runaway mages in need?" Cassandra's voice was the steel of Eve's blade but twice as cold.

"I owed her. After she helped me perfect this Circle act? I had Templars lining up eight nights a week." A sweeping gesture indicated the robes and everything included beyond.

"Where did she go?" Eve knew that if they could just get this answer then they could leave in peace. The tension between anger and control was balanced on a knife-edge. If she could just get out of here with what she needed perhaps no one else would have to be hurt.

"Some of the quarry men were in here. They said a shipment of ore was being sent to the Inquisition. Solace would've climbed on to get over the border." The fake mage surrendered the last piece with sad spite in her eyes.

The Inquisitor caught Cassandra's glance. The Seeker's eyes mirrored her own sense of triumph. Finally, a lead they could work with. Without a further word, Eve sheathed her sword and turned to thread her way back out. There was only one route a cart would take from Orlais to Skyhold: the Frostback Pass. Vivienne could loan them a bird and with luck they'd get word to Skyhold by dawn. Events had finally turned in their favor.

Pushing out of the door to the brothel, both warriors took a moment to breathe in cool night air.

"Ooh! A Seeker! That's a new one!" the man who'd been about to enter was delighted to have women meet him at the doorstep, "Do you like naughty templars? Or could I coax you into a game of Hide and See-"

Cassandra's fist dropped him to the ground with a single blow.

* * *

Dawn found the _Siren's Second Call_ (as Varric preferred to think of it) past Estwick island and edging towards the Rialto Bay. The dwarf only knew Afsaana by reputation, having drank with many of the musicians and dancers that originated in the Rivaini port. Zevran and Isabela had decided it was the best place to disembark, roughly halfway between famed Antiva City and the more infamous Kont-aar Qunari settlement. Once Rivaini and the Champion had their thief, they'd rendezvous in Antiva City, ransack the archives (Varric figured a few sovereigns would convince their ally to leave some chosen graffiti in the Crow's nest) and head back to sea. Assuming Brand could get the ship from Afsaana to Antiva City without the Queen of the Eastern Seas there to cup his balls the whole time.

 _I love when a plan sounds simple. Just means the shit will be more fun when it falls apart._ The dwarf strolled along the main deck. He idly noted the spot where Hawke had been puking yesterday, tiny marks gouged in the wood where her nails had dug in too deep. The Champion had sailed with her captain dozens of times now and she could manage life at sea for weeks on end. But the first day never got better. Varric had tried getting to the root of it before. He'd spoken with her about control issues and feeling adrift but she'd called bullshit (which it was) and said it was just her stomach priming for copious amounts of bad rum. Made as much sense as anything else.

Varric didn't even see Morrigan until he nearly walked into her. The witch had a way of holding so still that she seemed to blend with her environment. Which, when you considered the sort of clothes she wore, was really damned impressive. That was not a look you could miss. The blonde dwarf paused at her side, respectful of her large personal space bubble.

"Morrigan," he greeted genially.

"Dwarf." The witch replied with a small nod, as much tolerance as she'd ever afforded him.

When the writer found out that the Witch of the Wilds was at Skyhold he'd immediately gone hunting for stories. The Hero of Ferelden, the bastard king, Nightingale before she stopped singing; he knew the apostate had a hundred tales locked in that dark head but she'd artfully withheld every one. She was the worst kind of company, no stories of her own and no patience for listening to his. The problem was that he still liked her. She'd come through for the Inquisition, even if she was fundamentally only helping herself. So many of them were. She was tough, secretive, practical and scary as a demon's bloodshot eyes but driven and passionate about pretty much everything she did. And she had a sense of humor, if you knew how to listen. _Kind of like if Fenris had been a mage._

"You're watching me again." Morrigan hadn't even turned her eyes from the sea.

"Sorry, was just thinking of a friend. You guys would've hated each other. Or fallen in love, I'm not sure which. Either way, someone would probably be dead." Varric shifted to mirror the witch's position, gazing out at the waves and distant coastline.

"No wonder your writing is popular. You have a gift for the ridiculous," the brunette scoffed with her trademark harshness.

"Why not? You find it everywhere you look in life. Ever seen a Qunari trying on hats? Or a virgin in his first brothel? Never pass up a good chance to laugh," The rogue shrugged. He'd made a trade of seeing what everyone else pretended to ignore, "But I have been meaning to ask you a question."

"As usual." The mage turned slightly, enough to let her irritated frown be appreciated in all its threatening glory.

"You left Skyhold before anyone else and no one knew where you went. The Inquisitor tried to find out, believe me, but you'd just vanished. Where have you been all this time?" Varric recalled Trevelyan's covert investigations, none yielding more than dead ends.

"I had a few other matters to look into," Morrigan was artfully noncommittal, "But I found myself drawn back to Val Royeaux. I was given an offer of assistance with my own research as well as a chance to help another. It seemed a fair use of my time."

"Full house, huh? Usually a winning bet. So Leliana fills half the cards. The rest?" Tethras pursed his lips, pretending to think, "Your old friend Empress Celene. She's the only one powerful enough to be able to help you with anything."

"Power can be tipped in a single night. Your Inquisitor proved that." The witch's smirk hinted at memories of Halamshiral and Orlesian games.

"True. But you were in Val Royeaux weeks before the rest of us this time. Makes me wonder if the help you're giving Leliana doesn't extend beyond this particular little jaunt." Varric spun and leaned against the railing, feeling as comfortable as he might be resting against a bar.

"Are you going to keep espousing vague assumptions or simply ask?" Morrigan's brow knit with mild irritation, tired of the company and conversation.

"Nah. I only ask questions I already know the answers to," the dwarf grinned.

The apostate looked as if she had some further argument but closed her mouth when she spotted another approaching figure.

"Good morning you gorgeous creature," Captain Isabela strolled towards them with a smile of greeting, "And you, ice witch."

"Captain." Varric smirked, batting away a playful hand before it could touch his hair. Morrigan was conspicuously silent. The woman usually had an acerbic comment for everyone but her mouth had set into a thin line when the Rivaini sailor approached. Isabela wasn't much better, tossing the mage a rude gesture before sauntering past. This was worse than things with Aveline. When the captain was safely at the helm, too far away to overhear, Varric sidled closer to the witch.

"What is that anyway? Every time you two see each other it feels like an Archdemon couldn't break the chill," the storyteller demanded in a low rasp that was as close as he got to whispering.

"So?" Morrigan looked rather proud of the description.

"So it doesn't figure! You should see eye to eye on just about everything," Varric knew Morrigan would kill him if he said they were similar but he was going to come close, "The two of you are independent, violent, comfortable with your instincts and vocal in how much you despise the so-called 'morality' of the Chantry. Not to mention you're both scary as shit when you want to be. You should've been best friends!"

"You are overlooking a crucial difference," the witch's words were as cold and biting as winter wind, "She is a pirate. She sails the sea, making her way through life carried by fair winds rather than setting her own course. She has strength, perhaps, but no direction; no purpose. Her life is a selfish and wasteful indulgence."

Varric felt his blood rise as though he'd been struck. His fingers twitched for Bianca but a few deep breaths let him put the harsh words in perspective. Morrigan didn't know Isabela. He did.

"You're wrong. Isabela simply doesn't let her past control her future. She's cut the baggage loose. No past and no future might sound directionless to you but it lets her live for the moment. She's willing to take life as it comes and that's a shitload better than trying to escape history or chain down tomorrow," the blonde paused, knowing he might get himself thrown overboard at any moment, "If purpose is so important, what's yours?"

There was a chance the witch would say something superficial like knowledge or Flemeth but Varric doubted it. Part of what made Morrigan so damned difficult to deal with was her brutal honesty. A trait that, fortunately, she applied to herself as well.

"Kieran." The brunette didn't hesitate. Even saying her son's name seemed to pour fresh strength into her gaze. It warmed her eyes with an affection that the dwarf easily recognized. No matter the face, love had the same glow.

"Isabela has that too. She has it in Hawke. Any choice she makes, whatever shape her future takes is going to be determined by the love that selfish pirate has for her crazy Champion. Let life's waves toss her, they can try to break her as much as they want. Mark my words: she'll always rise to the surface. She knows where her happiness lies."

"Artfully said," Morrigan observed, her overall expression unmoved, "Perhaps you make money for more than being ridiculous."

"When we get back I'll give you some of my books. You'll hate them all. But I can't imagine you like anything better than a good bit of hate," Varric teased before straightening off the rail. The witch rewarded him with a small chuckle, a genuine hint of smile gracing her lips as she nodded her agreement. Folding his hands behind his back, the dwarf strolled away across the deck, a sailor's shanty hummed beneath his breath. All in all, that might have been the best conversation he'd had with the witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1-Nug-a-nug is actually a 16th century phrase for sex. Not joking. The English language was ridiculously creative with its innuendos back then.
> 
> 2- I never understood why two women who were both so strong and comfortable with themselves wouldn't get along but Morrigan and Isabela clearly disliked each other in DAO. This is my attempt to reconcile personality conflicts/similarities


	8. Act II:iv Respite

Leliana strolled majestically down the corridor that lead from the Divine Chamber to her private rooms. A gaggle of sisters and servants anxiously followed in her wake, taking notes on her every word.

"Tomorrow see to it that Marquis de Firmin is seated in a different row from Duke Cedric, he's a little too taken by the duke's new wife," the redhead continued, "Also, make sure the Reverend Mothers of Perendale and Montfort are kept apart, they are still feuding over one of Faustine II's relics. Do not allow Lady Giselle of Antiva any of the refreshment wine, she falls asleep."

It was remarkable; so many people filling that room to watch her and none of them realized she could watch them back. Part of her tried to focus on the actual Chant of Light as it was being sung but old instincts always rose to the fore and she found her eyes sweeping the crowd, noting each individual face and expression.

"Ser Armand has requested the hospitality of the Grand Cathedral as the inns of Val Royeaux are full," a cleric spoke up while rifling through her papers, each one a matter that needed the Divine's attention.

"Stubborn fool. He must apologize to his aunt and stay with her. There is nothing so important as family, no?" Leliana felt her lips trying to curl into a smile but forced her expression to stay neutral.

When she finally reached the doors of her own chamber she'd replied to five queries, settled two arguments and composed a formal but scathing letter for the three nobles who'd been foolish enough to try to slip their spies into the Cathedral. In some ways it felt like the Inquisition was merely training for this ultimate role. Only when she dismissed all her attendees and closed the door behind herself did she feel the relief of being alone.

"Long day?"

Mostly alone.

"It is difficult to focus on holy words when all I see is an audience full of selfish children." Leliana shook her head and accepted the glass of wine Solona extended. The Warden had stoked a roaring fire and settled into one of the plush armchairs nearby.

"You just need someone up there beside you to scare them into behaving. If only Morrigan hadn't left," the Hero complained, only half in jest. She had always enjoyed having the witch around and particularly liked her effect on other people.

"I do not think the clerics would be comfortable with me having a mage at my side for the entire ceremony. They barely tolerate you being in the audience," Leliana smirked, settling into the opposite chair.

"Hmm, someone almost as frightening then? Anora! Maker knows she'd rather stand at your side for the full two weeks than sit by Alistair." Solona dropped her voice as though she were confiding a secret. A very well-known secret that the royal couple did little to conceal.

"She has to stay beside him. If she didn't elbow him all afternoon he'd fall asleep. Maker's breath, the royalty all seem to forget they are in a holy place," Leliana mused with a mirthless laugh, "Empress Celene and the Marquise of the Dales will be seated apart for the remainder of the Chant, that is certain."

"Perhaps when the Inquisitor returns she can remind everyone how to act like grownups? She seemed good at that." The Warden leaned forward and stoked the fire once more, the flame painting her skin with its golden glow.

"That is mostly Cassandra's influence. Lady Trevelyan is no stranger to childish behavior." Leliana recalled nearly catching the warrior with Sera in the rookery, plotting pranks.

Then there was the drinking match with Iron Bull and the time she and Dorian managed to get an actual Iron Lady installed in Vivienne's quarters. It had certainly been Eve that suggested the Charger's game of Diamondback be turned to strip gambling. The worst was when Solas found all of his lyrium potions had been replaced with cold tea, a trick that nearly got the companions killed by a Behemoth. Sera claimed responsibility but Leliana was fairly sure it had been Eve's idea. Still, better it was her sense of humor causing trouble rather than her temper. Cassandra had enough anger for them both.

"Speaking of that darling duo, shouldn't they be back by now?" Solona's brow knit with mild suspicion.

"They will be delayed a few days. There was an unexpected turn of events." Leliana's voice danced with melodic playfulness as she outlined the report from Montsimmard, including the visit to The Nightflower Garden. The furious proprietor had swiftly calmed after being subtly reminded that the brothel would be all the more famous for having been 'visited' by the legendary Inquisitor. Facts and stories seldom had to coincide.

"You mean Cassandra actually went into a brothel and no one died?" The Hero asked with genuine surprise. She'd begun hearing stories of the Right Hand almost as soon as her beloved became the Left. In bits and pieces she'd formed a mental image of the Nevarran warrior over the years. When she finally met the woman it was all confirmed.

"Apparently so," Leliana was equally amazed, "It would seem the Inquisitor and Seeker stabilize each other."

"Quite a team. I'm starting to see how they accomplished the impossible. All of you." The mage's gaze grew somber, a look the Divine easily recognized. It had tortured her to be so far away in a time of need, unable to reach out with any help beyond words. During all the time they were apart there were only a handful of occasions when they truly feared for each other. Leliana still wasn't sure if the Hero had been more worried by Corypheus or her beloved's crisis of faith.

"Speaking of the impossible," The Orlesian set aside her wine and reached for the Warden's hand instead, "How is it? Any change?"

"Still no hint of dragon song. No nightmares either. But we're a long way from any taint," Solona's head tilted noncommittally, "I should probably grab my armor and go find some Darkspawn, that's the only way to find out for sure."

"Don't even joke about that!" Genuine horror crept into the usually calm voice, "Not even Fiona knew that she was freed of the Calling until much later. We must be patient, yes?"

"I'll try. I suppose sitting through the entire Chant of Light will help me with that." The Warden rose to her feet and stretched, mournfully glancing to the bed she knew she could no longer occupy. They'd slept apart for years but found the comfort easy to fall back into and addictively hard to give up. They both knew better than to linger too long in the evenings lest they revert to old habits. Leliana stood as well, every step towards the door a prolonged complaint.

"You don't have to sit through it all, you know. You must already be bored, no?" Too often through the day the Divine had allowed her gaze to wander towards her love, frequently finding eyes locked hard on her as though she might vanish in a blink. Other times she could see the Hero's protective streak dominating her thoughts, scrutinizing the room and audience for any possible threat. It was almost a tradition for attempts to be made on the life of the Divine during the enthronement rituals. When else was she guaranteed to be a stationary target for two weeks?

"Too distracting having me in the audience?" Solona teased, "It's your appointment, Leliana. I'm not going to miss a second. Besides, I'm looking forward to the Canticle of the Shepherd."

"That is a holy song of adoration, a testimony of a mortal's devotion to Andraste," the bard protested, recognizing a mischievous glint in her Warden's eyes. When she opened her mouth Leliana knew what was coming but couldn't help holding her breath all the same.

"'My Lady is closest in the night,  
When the heavenly bosom enfolds me in perfumed air.  
Beneath the starry gaze of her eyes I am overcome.  
I exult in Her love, lips moved in praise, on bended knee I worship.'" Solona quoted until the rogue suddenly closed the space between them, close enough to touch. The brush of breath against her cheek sent a chill down her spine.

"You always knew just how to use holy writ to your advantage," Leliana chastised, words little more than a whisper before her smile broke the spell, "I will be saying extra prayers when we get to Shepherd, I suggest you do the same."

With nothing more than a chaste kiss to Solona's forehead she bid goodnight. Now she was truly alone in her chamber and collapsed onto the bed that was ridiculously large for one. _Maker give me strength._

* * *

Inquisitor Trevelyan had a complicated relationship with sleep. The wreckage of her nightmares could leave her soaked in sweat and gasping for air. Or she could escape the burden of her life and duties for a few sweet hours. The warmth of Cassandra's body curled against her both stayed the terrors but also gave her reason to never close her eyes. The peace of oblivion or the torture of her memories; it was a cruel gamble she made every night. Each time her head touched the pillow it was with a frisson of anticipation: which would it be tonight?

That being said, the fear wasn't enough to drive her from relief. However fraught with peril it might be, Eve had never been inclined to forgo her nightly rest. On nights when she was kept awake by danger, rough terrain or too much noise she could become fairly . . . testy. 'Ill-tempered as a wyvern with ginger up her ass,' was Bull's description of a sleep-deprived Inquisitor. When she and Cassandra arrived in the Frostback Pass camp, they were approaching 38 hours without any rest.

"Your Worship. Fashionably late as usual?" Lace's familiar freckles were the first to greet Trevelyan when she swung off her horse. The dusk light was already fading to reveal the first evening stars.

"Scout Harding. I'll leave the fashion to Magister Pavus. I prefer your style anyway." Eve smiled as- she executed a ridiculously formal mock salute. It was the last strain of civility in her blood.

"Naturally. Who can resist rusted armor and chafing?" Harding smiled in return, always ready with a rejoinder for any of the Inquisitor's obvious flattery, "We got here at midday and the cart passed through a few hours later. You were right; the mage was hiding in the quarry stone."

"Thank the Maker," Seeker Pentaghast breathed a weary sigh of relief, "Where is she?"

"The far tent, under guard. She hasn't been particularly communicative. Though she did try to bite one of the men." The dwarf scout managed to sound amused and apologetic all at once.

"Right." Eve's mouth settled into a hard line and she strode across the camp. After 38 hours on the hunt she felt her blood positively bubbling with the scent of victory. She pushed through the entrance flap the way a conquering army breached city walls. Inside were two scouts standing guard and Solace sitting on the ground, arms wrapped tight around her knees. Her skin and hair were blackened from the dust of the stone she'd hidden with. The darkness on her face only served to contrast the glittering, righteous indignation in her eyes.

The thousand questions and accusations that had been held at the edge of Trevelyan's tongue all faded to silence. Holding the gaze of the captured mage Eve saw a turmoil of emotion. Beneath the anger was frustration, helplessness, confusion. Fear. It was almost painfully familiar. Staring down at Solace the Inquisitor could vividly recall being in the reverse position. Leliana and Cassandra had stood over her, making accusations and threats when she didn't even know where she was or what had happened. All at once, the adrenaline of the chase fled Eve's muscles and she was too weary even for words.

"Get some rest," The Inquisitor advised, voice hoarse with fatigue as she turned to leave.

"What?" The rage in Solace's eyes momentarily faded into deeper confusion. This was clearly not how she expected her evening to proceed.

"Sleep," Eve repeated, the command louder and angrier than necessary, "Tomorrow we'll talk about answers."

Trevelyan slipped back out of the tent, finding Cassandra just on the other side of the flap. The Seeker had been awake for just as long but hid the weariness better. She easily fell into step alongside as the Inquisitor headed for an empty tent.

"If I questioned her tonight, I'd kill her," Eve admitted quietly, running a hand over her face as though she could wipe away a day and half's worth of irritation. Stepping into a sparse shelter she sank gratefully onto a bed roll.

"I'd help," The Nevarran confessed, sliding down close beside her. The Inquisitor had no recollection of removing her armor or boots. Her last memory of the night was the dark creeping over her eyes as she wrapped her arms around the already sleeping Seeker.


	9. Act III:i Across Thedas

Antiva was a nation that prided itself on its artistry. The finest wine, leather, woodwork, gemstones, silk and porcelain all came from the coastal country. Where they were truly unparalleled, however, was in their criminals. In Antiva the princes were merchants, the merchants thieves. An army of assassins held the world at bay while pirates poured gold into every port. Between the Crows and the Felicisima Armada the nation had no fear of outside threat, only tearing themselves apart. Even the Qunari had learned to leave them alone.

Antiva City was the beating heart of the sophisticated, fearsome country. Literally: it was where blood never stopped flowing.

"Still smells like saltwater and piss." Varric took a deep breath, the tang of spices subtly cutting the dank air. The cobbles beneath his feet were all the more interesting for the crimson stains that had soaked into stone. Duels and drinking were national pastimes in Antiva and the dwarf idly wondered whether the ingrained splashes of color were blood or wine.

"Why are we waiting here again?" Morrigan demanded irritably, arms crossed as though she could ward off the stench surrounding them.

"Because you didn't want to wait inside." Tethras jerked his head toward the seedy building that looked all the more dilapidated in daylight. Had Zevran really grown up in there? Explained a lot.

"We shouldn't have let him go off alone," Morrigan paced angrily up and down the alley, "He is not on the best terms with the Crows."

"No but he's the best at avoiding them. The birdbrains are still hunting him in the Free Marches, they wouldn't even think to look for him here at home." Varric leaned easily against a wall, completely indifferent to what or who had been done against it the previous night.

The Inquisition's business with Lord Enzo hadn't improved Zevran's relationship with the assassin's guild. But the elf had laughed as he assured them he still had friends in the city. Friends who might not be so civil if they found out he was traveling with Varric. The Crows could forgive insults like being involved in the death of a Third Talon or even breaking into the Archives, but penetrating Velabanchel? Stealing prisoners from the Crow's House of Graves was ultimately unforgivable. It wounded their pride.

_Technically, it was Rivaini that broke in. She just happened to leave the door open for a couple friends._ The archer smiled as he recalled the fun of that adventure. Witches, dragons, Crows and Qunari; there'd even been a Tevinter Magister's cult in the middle of that shit too. It was like a training run for everything the Inquisition ended up having to deal with. What might have happened if that crazy Aurelian bastard had succeeded? Would he and Corypheus have ended up fighting over a world of ashes? _Thank the Maker for heroes._ Varric thought of the warriors he'd traveled with. _And for rogues_.

The dwarf was roused from his thoughts by the sound of a door opening nearby. He moved aside just before a drunk staggered into the alley and vomited. Morrigan cursed and leapt backwards, clearly tempted to incinerate the man. Varric deftly shoved him back through the door and slammed it shut, avoiding the fresh mess on the stones.

"This is ridiculous. We are wasting time while that assassin is likely getting drunk or murdered." The witch growled and tossed a small fire ball at the offensive puddle. The smell of sour ale and smoke mingled with the already pungent air.

"Which prospect worries you more, my beauty?" Zevran had the timing of a true artist, strolling casually out of the shadows around the corner.

"Either would be a delay," Morrigan replied, as cool in her words as he was warm. The charming elf could never melt her ice and she could never chill his enthusiasm but Varric enjoyed watching both try.

"You set my heart aflutter," Zevran theatrically held his chest, "But enough of this romancing. I have learned where we can find Lady de Vici. She attends a fete tonight being held by the Countess Oriana Calabria. The Countess is angling for favor among the princes, it will be a notable and well attended event."

"Once more, why must we meet this woman in public? It would be swift and far simpler to find her residence." Morrigan returned to a question that hadn't been properly answered by any of the assassin's evasive information.

"The only way to arrange a private meeting is through the Crows themselves. Since our task is one contrary to their interests, we might prefer they not know of our business. Also, the lady is known to be fairly protective of her privacy. At least five Talons have died trying to gain entry to her manor. Without an invitation it is quite unwise." Zevran's warning was edged in respect, possibly even admiration.

"Looks like we're going to the ball." Varric rubbed his hands briskly, already eager to put his many talents to use.

"A noble's celebration? Just how do you intend we enter?" The scowling mage had clearly had enough of such frivolities during her time in Orlais.

"Between my charm, your beauty and his tongue? That will be the easiest of our tasks," Zevran easily dismissed the challenge, "Our challenge shall lie in finding the lady."

"So long as we arrive early we must simply listen for her name to be announced." Boredom was already bleeding out of Morrigan's tone. She'd lost endless hours listening to pompous titles.

"I fear not," a twist of intrigue enlivened Zevran's smile, "You see, she will not be an _invited_ guest."

* * *

_Meanwhile, southwest in the Frostbacks . . ._

Lace Harding grew up on the farms of Redcliffe. Her entire family had been 'sun-touched' since before her grandmother, abandoning underground dwarf society for prospects on the surface. She wasn't entirely certain what her ancestors envisioned when they rose from the tunnels but she had a feeling it wasn't a life of sheep shit and itchy wool. They probably just wanted to see more of Thedas. They couldn't possibly imagine the amount she'd seen. From home on their small family farm she'd traveled clear to the western edge of Orlais and touched nearly every territory north and south between.

Her forebears had delved deep beneath the earth but they could not imagine standing at the top of the world. From the towers of Skyhold she'd seen the limitless horizons of every direction and then gone to explore each one. Chafing armor, dangerous animals, thieving bandits and bad rations all aside; she wouldn't trade her life for any other in Thedas.

_I do miss Contessa._ Harding knew her Mabari was being well cared for by the family but the dog would've been useful out here. Leaving the animal behind was her only regret. Well, that and not getting closer with the Inquisitor when she had a chance. Not that it really could've gone anywhere. She was a farm-born dwarf scout ( _Lieutenant_ , she added in her own head) while Lady Trevelyan had arrived with a title and glowing mark that turned out to be the salvation of all Thedas. A bit of sweaty exploration and conquest was all that might have happened and Harding quickly put even that idea aside when she saw how the Inquisitor looked at Seeker Pentaghast. Still, the flirting was fun.

"Are you done yet?" Lace had escorted the captive mage to a nearby lake to rinse off the grime of her escape. The water was ice melt and she'd expected the woman to be in an out in less than a minute. It had been easily ten and she was still submerged to her chin, scrubbing.

"Almost, Serrah Harding," the blonde human replied. She was more respectful than Harding expected. Humans tended to ignore or discriminate against dwarves simply because of their size, until they realized that an axe could bring anyone to eye level. Mages were usually full of condescending pity for a race that couldn't touch magic. Circle Mages were the absolute worst because most of them had never seen a dwarf in their life. Ignorance and racism could be hard to tell apart.

"It's just Scout, mage," Lace corrected, not sure why the formal address made her uncomfortable. The sound of splitting water drew her attention away from the tree line just as the woman rose from the lake.

"I'll call you Scout when you stop calling me 'mage.'" Solace's reply would've seemed angry except for the corner of her lips lifting, making a cheeky smile. Rivers of droplets streamed off of her, skin actually steaming as she emerged into the sun warmed air. Did all mages bathe naked? Harding had traveled with scouts of all races but none of them ever stripped to the buff before diving head first into freezing cold water. _None of them, however, looked like that._

"We should get back, the Inquisitor and Seeker will be awake soon." Harding turned away before her eyes wandered or a blush gave her away. She knew from experience that the same complexion that allowed for her (admittedly popular) freckles also betrayed her thoughts almost instantly.

"Those two are different, aren't they?" Solace mused aloud, noise indicating she was sliding back into her clothing.

"A little bit, I suppose," Lace admitted, thinking of how the two warriors had behaved around each other – alternating periods of intimacy and awkwardness, "It took them longer than usual to understand what was going on. But they didn't exactly have a lot of time to think about romance, you know?"

"I meant for Templars." Solace's reply was slightly choked. Harding spun back around, seeing a war between surprise and laughter suffusing the mage's face. She'd actually stopped in the middle of pulling on her shirt, gaping open-mouthed at the accidental revelation. The scout had a split second to make a firm mental decision: diffusing the embarrassment was her only option.

"They're not Templars," she stated, refusing to address any of the other implied conversation material. The firmness of her tone seemed to drag the human back to the reality of dressing herself.

"I knew the armor looked funny!" Solace laughed, clearly at herself, "I just thought they were trying a bit of new packaging or some bollocks."

"Yeah, not Templars. Come on, they'll be up and wondering where you are," Lace reiterated, hoping they could return before the mage asked any more troublesome questions.

When Scout Harding brought her captive back into camp it was to a waiting Inquisitor and Seeker. The two women had clearly slept as long as they felt necessary and were both waiting with folded arms and expectant faces. Lady Trevelyan wasn't quite as scary as Lady Pentaghast but so long as the two stood side by side, it didn't matter. Facing the duo would be enough to make the hardiest criminal soil their smalls. They were only slightly less scary sitting down in the sun dappled shade of a sycamore.

"Solace," The Inquisitor greeted and gestured to an open space at the makeshift table, "Did you have breakfast?"

"Yes." The mage's mouth had settled into a thin line, ignoring the proffered seat. Harding knew for a fact the blonde hadn't had a bite of food her entire time in the camp. She treated everyone like she was about to be poisoned. What was she so scared of?

"When we met I made a mistake, I didn't tell you why we needed your help. We'd like to explain now." Trevelyan's sincerity could melt rock and the mage clearly wavered.

"How about you start with why you're chasing me?" Solace demanded, caught between the fear of a victim and the power of a prize.

"Because you're important," the Inquisitor leaned forward, intensity radiating off every inch of her skin, "You might be the future of mages."

"I'm listening." The blonde finally sank into a seat at the table.

For the next hour Scout Lieutenant Lace Harding stood at attention, guarding her captive and watching the perimeter of the camp. She also listened in rapt fascination as Inquisitor Trevelyan unwound the mysteries of Tranquility, the cure and its promise for all Thedas. She was far too mesmerized by the revelation of these complex secrets to notice that the mage's eyes grew more fearful with every passing minute.

* * *

_And on the Northern tip of Rivain . . ._

Isabela loved telling stories. Inflated adventures, victorious battles, lusty conquests; she could hold an entire tavern enthralled or simply tease a lover to distraction with any of a hundred tales. The wonderful thing about stories was how fluid they could be. She could change the details at whim. The number of ships, amount of treasure or size of the male appendage could all vary according to her mood and the moment. _Half a dozen warships. Twice your weight in gold. Wouldn't choke a squirrel._ Lies and exaggerations added spice and humor. Inconsistencies could be corrected later or blamed on copious alcohol. Many stories changed just so she could be sure no one ever figured out too much of her past.

Some stories she tried to never share, not even within the space of her own thoughts. Those were locked down tightly beneath so many denials and deceptions that she wasn't even sure how to find the truth in them anymore. The deepest buried of these were, by far, her childhood. Isabela might as well have put those memories in a chest and thrown them to the bottom of the Waking Sea. (Something she had delighted in doing with a number of Luis' reminders). Yet every so often a moment in her present life would bring up those buried years.

One such time was when Hawke gave her the Rivaini Fertility Talisman as a gift. It had been so surprising that she hadn't been able to conceal her honest response. In a single kind gesture the Champion had accidentally brought Isabela's mother back into her life, even if only as a token. Just seeing it she could remember the smell of burning herbs and the jingle of elaborate jewelry – the trappings of Madame Hari as she conned naïve women with stories of romance. Isabela recalled hiding in the shadows to steal baubles off the distracted, desperate customers; stifling her giggles at the ludicrous promises and suggestive hints her mother so expertly invented. She could still name a few of the villages they fleeced in those days. The Seer act kept them busy during the day while at night the little girl was taught to perfect her agile fingers, pickpocketing drunks in the taverns.

The emotion tied up in those memories had almost made Isabela fling the damn talisman into a fire. She didn't though, couldn't really. Instead, she accepted it. Mostly because Hawke was so utterly charming when she gave it to her (the sex afterward easily made their top ten). She also took the gift because it was wonderfully obscene and would horrify their prudish friends. But there had been a tiny part of her that insisted on having the talisman because of a truth she never wanted to admit. It was a secret that she kept even from herself:

She had loved her childhood.

Traveling now through the country she'd roamed with her mother for all those years, the jaded pirate faced a thousand reminders of that most hated fact. She'd been happy. She had enjoyed learning her mother's tricks, accompanying her to swindle entire villages out of their coin. Life with Hari had taught her the skillful hands and even quicker tongue that kept her alive ever since. Once she was old enough to turn men's eyes it was almost too easy to rob them blind. Mother and daughter together were unstoppable. Naturally there had been the occasional dispute over how to divide the spoils, where to head next or which trick to use. But nothing could prepare the younger woman for the fights that began when her mother decided to leave the life.

_Damn the bloody Qun._ Only when Hari insisted on settling down and studying the ways of the Qunari did her daughter start to see who she was. Yes, she was a liar and cheat and the young Rivaini didn't doubt that she might even have been a whore at some point but the girl had always seen her mother as clever and adventurous. Then Hari gave herself over to the Qun, that was when her daughter realized the woman was weak. Weak and selfish because she chose a book of rules over actual thought and then tried to beat them into her child and when that didn't work . . .

' _Just take her._ ' The pirate still wanted to stab everyone in sight when she thought of the words. That rich Antivan bastard offered a pathetic price and all Hari wanted at that point was to be rid of her uncontrollable daughter so she could go live her life of mindless servitude. If she'd had any clue her mother was thinking of such a thing, of sending her away, _selling_ her away; she would've left on her own and never come back.

_Come to think of it, I never did, did I?_ ' _Til now. Damn you, Songbird._ She'd never set foot on Rivain's soil since Luis took her away. Llomeryn didn't count. She'd become Isabela: property. Then so-called wife, plaything and eventually widow; that was when her life _really_ began. Dragging her ass across the damned countryside of her childhood was very nearly the last thing she wanted to be doing. The _absolute_ last was what she was about to do now.

"Ready for this?" Hawke rested a hand on the small of her back, a subtle gesture of comfort. She'd sensed Isabela's uneasiness from the moment they set foot in Afsaana. The captain's temper and sarcasm grew sharper the deeper they traveled into the country until they'd reached this: the ultimate goal and arguably the last place Isabela ever wanted to be.

"A Qunari Detention Center," Isabela spat the name, "Because they can't call it a fucking prison. Just like its 'Reeducation' instead of torture."

"We don't have to do it this way," Aveline argued once more, uncomfortable with the strategy they'd decided upon. The imposing stone walls loomed ever larger as the three women drew closer. So did the two Qunari guards on either side of the iron gates.

"Don't you worry about me, Big Girl, I've played more dangerous games than this." The pirate forced her usual cocky breeziness into the promise.

"Yes, but normally there's whipped cream with the handcuffs, 'Bela." Hawke sounded as worried as Aveline, shaking the metal chain in her hand for emphasis. Both Fereldan women had picked up the sailor's subtle cues of discomfort, no matter how much swagger she kept in her step. They didn't know all the memories or reasons or stories swirling in her mind but they knew their friend. _Andraste's nibbled tits! These two will wuss out before I do!_ Isabela sighed and abruptly pulled the Champion out of the view of the guards, dragging Aveline behind.

"Whipped cream or no I am always on top, Hawke. Remember?" The captain pushed her lover a little too forcefully into the alley wall, shackles rattling around her wrists, "Always. And if you haven't learned that by now I'll teach you again when we're out of here."

"Deal," the Champion agreed once she had air back in her lungs. The piercing blue of her eyes cut into Isabela like she could slice past every other thought and emotion to the truths beneath. That gaze threatened to break all her secrets loose and the pirate couldn't handle it; not yet. She pulled Hawke into an open, hungry kiss that forced the azure knives to vanish, relishing the way her Champion surrendered so easily and completely.

"Right," Isabela pulled away before she could lose herself as well, "Let's get on with this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The portion about Isabela relied heavily on the Graphic Novels as well as World of Thedas Vol.2. Both amazing!


	10. Act III:ii Grudges

Hawke had once taken Isabela right on Aveline's desk. It hadn't been intentional - at least not for Hawke - but the pirate had been pushing her buttons all day as only she could. When they were suddenly alone in the office waiting for the Guard Captain's return, it was the work of an impulsive moment to hoist the sailor onto polished wood. Isabela had managed to stifle her ecstasy against Hawke's armor (she left bite marks in the leather of her shoulder guard). They did their best to clean up the scattered papers afterwards but the wet ink had stained Isabela's hands and thighs and left surprisingly descriptive marks across the desktop. When Aveline returned it took only a glance at the office, her furniture and her friends to know exactly what had happened. She hadn't said a word. She'd simply given them both a tired glare that promised they'd pay for their crime later.

Isabela was pretty sure Aveline was getting her revenge now. The guardswoman shoved her forward, one hand fisted tight in black tresses to keep control of the pirate as they approached the Qunari guards. _Always thought she'd probably like it rough._ Isabela winced, the pain in her scalp keeping the smirk off her face.

"I'm Guard Captain Vallen of Kirkwall. I've been sent to deliver a gesture of good faith to the Qunari," Aveline announced with the rich confidence of a commander of men. A kick to the back of Isabela's leg dropped the woman to her knees. _Now you're just having too much fun._ The Rivaini bit the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing at the damned woman.

"What do you want, basra?" The guard on the left was unimpressed. Isabela mentally dubbed him Tiny.

"The thief of Koslun: Captain Isabela of the Raiders. We turn her over to your custody." Aveline twisted the dark hair harder than necessary before finally releasing her grip. From the corner of her eye the pirate saw both Qunari draw themselves taller at the familiar name.

"You ball-busting bitch! You can't do this to me!" Isabela shouted, tugging hard on the chain attached to her manacles. She started to rise off the ground to fight but a boot between her shoulders knocked her all the way to the ground. The bound woman made a mental note to pay Aveline back handsomely for that little abuse.

"We had a deal, whore. You were never to set foot in my city again. Now you're their problem." The redhead drew back and tossed the chain to the Qunari. Tiny grabbed it, eyes darting a quick glance to his compatriot. A guttural exchange took place between the two massive guards. Isabela knew enough Qunlat to follow the basic idea. Tiny didn't believe she really was the famed thief, the other felt they couldn't risk letting her go if she was. Tiny lost the argument, unlocking the steel door and hauling the pirate to her feet.

"Panahedan, bas. We will remember." The boss guard gave a small nod of his head, as close as the proud species ever came to actually saying Thank You.

"I'll wait for you to lock her up. I want those shackles back." Aveline pointed to the handcuffs binding Isabela's wrists as the woman was already being dragged through the door.

"Why?" Tiny stopped, he was definitely the more suspicious by nature.

"The cuffs that delivered Captain Isabela to captivity? They'll be my prize trophy." The warrior's laugh was cold as the metal she spoke of. Isabela caught a glimpse of Hawke's shadow just around the corner of the building, surprisingly reassuring with so slight a presence.

"Very well." Boss nodded once more for Tiny to do his job and Isabela found herself drawn completely into the claustrophobic walls of the prison, the slamming door closing off all remnant of daylight.

The corridor was dark and uneven, just as the pirate had hoped. She felt a rough hand shove her forward, pushing her to walk ahead into the shadows. She staggered under the force of the blow, doubling over long enough to get the lock pick from inside the edge of her corset.

"Back off, Ox-man! It's bloody dark!" Isabela spat. The guard ignored her anger, yanking her harshly to stand straight before she was thrust forward again. The impatient prodding against her back fueled irritated bursts of rage behind her eyes. The harder Tiny pushed the more she stumbled. Once, twice, again for a third time until she heard the Qunari curse in annoyance and draw closer to pull her up. _That's it, sunshine._

A muffled thud from beyond the locked entry was the cue Isabela had been waiting for. Tiny turned for only a moment towards the sound of trouble and the pirate's heel shot out, slamming with all her might into the back of his knee. Less armor, more momentum. Tiny staggered forward, grabbing harder on Isabela's chain and she lunged into the pull; rolling beneath his swinging fist and shooting up. The top of her head cannoned into his chin so hard she saw stars but heard teeth crack. The stunned Qunari stumbled backward from the force of impact and Isabela pressed her advantage. She had seconds to finish before he gathered enough of his senses to cry out, to alert the other guards.

She gathered the slack of her chain and tossed it around a muscle-bound neck, locking it in place with her opened cuffs. Feeling the choking pressure on his throat Tiny fought back, instinctively tugging ferociously on the iron links in his hands. Isabela slid out of the way as the force of the Qunari's own panic strangled him into unconsciousness. He collapsed against the wall, dragged downward by his own weight. It took both hands and a leg braced against the wall to roll the damned ox-man over but Isabela triumphantly freed keys from his belt and raced back to the entry.

Unlocking the steel entrance revealed an equally comatose Boss lying on the threshold. Hawke and Aveline shoved him into the dark corridor and slammed the door once more. The Champion tossed over a familiar harness with gleaming twin blades. Taking on a Qunari singlehanded and weaponless was pretty bloody impressive but the pirate only cared that she was alive to brag later. Strapping on her daggers was the first thing that felt comfortable all day.

"Right, we have about ten minutes before someone realizes the guards are gone. Move your sweet asses," Isabela commanded, darting ahead of them into the blackness.

"This place is huge; it'll take longer than that to find one prisoner!" Aveline argued even as she followed on the pirate's heels.

"No, it won't. Qunari are predictable bastards. If they can't conquer you, they'll convert you. If they can't convert you, they'll kill you. Our thief is on step two. If she's not, we're already too late." The pirate's chuckle was mirthless as she led their charge deeper into the bowels of prison. She knew what she was looking for. The dark of the stone walls would only make it easier to find. Bleeding up through the stone came the sound of distant voices. A trail to follow.

_"_ _Who did you sell the recipe to?" An angry interrogator, always a woman._

_"_ _The corner baker, of course. It's going to be the special ingredient in his new scones." A laughing reply cut short by the sound of a fist against bone._

Every level of the prison had another guard at the door but a perfectly flung dagger or rushing attack out of shadow ended each without sound. Aveline easily shoved the bodies aside, clearing a route for their inevitably frantic escape. Finally Isabela saw what she needed. The eerie, silver glow was almost invisible in the dim torch lit halls but there was just enough to lead her to the final stairs. The angry conversation had grown clear and loud, as had the sounds of stifled violence.

 _"_ _Careful, Horny. I'm kinda getting into this."_ The taunting voice had to be their prisoner.

"There! This is where they keep the Qamek. She's here." The captain leapt down the stairs, flipping to land on her feet before a door that allowed the faintest hint of unnatural light to escape its cracks.

"Someday you're going to tell me how you know about all this." Hawke was instantly beside her at the door, a little breathless from the race. She brushed the stray hair out of her eyes without dropping either dagger.

"No, sweet thing. I'm not," Isabela corrected with a sad smile. Not even her Champion needed to know what could happen in one of these places. From just beyond the door came the sound of another harsh blow.

_"_ _Ashkost kata! You will not be given the escape of death. Last chance, saar-saam. Who did you sell it to?" There was a breathless rage to the threat._

_"_ _Taarsidath-an halsaam, you bitch."_ Hateful dignity laced the words like a final, proud surrender.

Isabela pulled the door open, a painful glow filling the entire corridor with flickering light. The pirate's eyes adjusted first and she spotted the Qamek in the center of the room, two Qunari guards dragging a struggling form towards the ominous orb. If they were distracted by the invasion they gave no sign, single-mindedly focused only on the task at hand. Isabela was barely across the threshold before the prisoner's face was driven into the Qamek, the poisonous light spinning and growing brighter as it enveloped its victim.

"No!" The captain shot forward, straight past the Tamassran and her extra soldiers. She cannoned into the guards holding their thief, two quick flashes of blade slicing the arms and fingers that held the thrashing woman in place.

"Vashedan! You violate our justice?" The indignant cry of the Tamassran roared over the pained howls of the attacked guards. Isabela knew the bursts of clanging metal were Hawke and Aveline taking on the rest of the soldiers as she fought to pull the elf free. She'd already stopped moving, the Qamek pouring itself into her with every breath. The Rivaini ducked a swung sword, retaliating with a blade straight into her attacker's thigh. Grabbing the limp thief's body she rolled them both away from battle.

"Come on, fight it!" She rose over the motionless form, grabbing bony shoulders as though she could shake the cursed poison away. A nearby scream ended with the slam of bones breaking against stone and the shadows dancing across the wall reduced once more. The last of the Qamek vanished, little more than a swallowed light as it faded behind the prone woman's teeth. Isabela could barely feel a heartbeat or breath as she sought life from the body beneath her hands. Too late. She let the woman fall back to the ground.

"She's viddath-bas now. A mindless slave. As you and your friends will be shortly." The Tamassran's triumphant voice from behind her made the pirate's spine tighten. She could feel the sharpness of a blade pointing through the air towards her back.

"I wish I had a coin for every blighter that thought I'd be a slave." Isabela chuckled and gathered her daggers with fresh strength in her grip, muscles coiled to spring.

The first hint of movement was the suction of a weapon beginning to swing. The Rivaini rolled backwards, bursting to her feet in time to block a follow-up blow. She danced easily around her attacker, evading the heavy swipes. Nimbly retaliating with her own darting stabs, Isabela carved into Qunari armor, each blow closer to flesh. Hawke and Aveline were close to victory with the rest of the guards but a surprised curse of pain caught Isabela's ear. Her eyes flickered instinctively to the Champion and the distraction was long enough that she was caught off guard by the next kick. A heavy boot hit her in the stomach, slamming the pirate clear to the wall.

By the time she got air back in her lungs Isabela spotted Hawke's daggers dispatching the last guard, oblivious to the remaining danger. The pirate couldn't get to her feet in time. The towering Qunari interrogator had already closed the distance, grabbing the Champion from behind. Hawke struggled but a painful twist of her wrist suddenly had her own razor sharp blade biting the flesh of her throat. The Tamassran's sword edge hovered dangerously across her torso, the promise of evisceration with a single cut. Everyone froze.

"Drop your weapon." The command was leveled first to Aveline. The Guard Captain hesitated, clearly calculating speed, distance, time and reflexes. Warriors didn't surrender their swords. Death before dishonor and all that bilge. But Aveline preferred living with friends to dying with honor. Her blade hitting the stones made a ringing metallic echo throughout the cell. That only left Isabela armed.

"You're going to regret this." The dark sailor glared at the Tamassran. She couldn't even see the Champion's face, the eyes that were warning her not to be stupid. There was only the Qunari and blades and Hawke in the middle, in danger. Again. Hate like a dragon rose and roared through the pirate's blood.

"Not so much as you will if you don't obey. I will rend this woman to pieces and make you clean her blood after the Qamek takes you," the Qunari bit back, her grip shifting just enough to create a trickle of red on Hawke's skin.

The first wound. It had been on Hawke's shoulder before, a glancing blow from the Arishok's blade that tore through her armor just close enough. Then there had been another, and another and the blood flowed freely, spattered and spreading across the floor of the throne room. Isabela remembered fighting restraining hands, threatening, cursing, helpless.

_Not this time._

"Drop your weapons. I may be merciful enough to let this one live with her will and memories intact. Or she can die and I'll let you rot in the remembrance of your blame." Qunari laughter never sounded right.

"I am so sick of your voice." The words rising out of shadow dragged the Tamassran's attention over her shoulder. She turned just in time to meet an oncoming fist. It wasn't the blow so much as the sight of the standing thief that momentarily stunned the horned woman. It was a fraction of a second. More than enough time for an angry rogue.

The captain lunged across the cell. Her left dagger hooked into the sword's edge, sending it flying across the stones. Her right slashed upwards, opening the back of the hand that clutched Hawke's wrist. The grip broke and the Champion dove aside as Isabela tackled the Qunari woman and forced her to the floor, following with the full weight of her body. A fraction of a second and the Tamassran was completely pinned.

"I seriously hope you guys are here for me." The elf stepped forward, shaking out her fist. The knuckles had split open where she'd made contact with her torturer's nose.

"We have a job." Hawke nodded confirmation, approaching Isabela to pull her away. The pirate could feel a hand hovering near her shoulder, debating whether to interfere. _Go away, Hawke. You don't need to see this._ The sailor held her blade tight to the Qunari's neck, watching the eyes beneath her glower in angry acceptance.

"Great. No time like the present!" The thief clapped her hands and darted out the cell door before anything more could be said.

"Wait! Not that – Hawke, she's going the wrong way!" Aveline protested, following the confused prisoner. Isabela felt the Champion's warring instincts: her urge to pursue the mission, her refusal to leave anyone behind.

"After her, Hawke. I'll be right behind," the Rivaini assured, pleased when her lover complied without protest. Only when the sound of footsteps had vanished completely up the stairs did she lean closer to her trapped enemy. She wanted to be sure the bitch-priestess of the Qun could read fate in the shadows of her face.

"You have no honor," the Tamassran spat, ignoring the pressure of death on her throat.

"That's Hawke's department," Isabela felt a cruelness creep into her smile, "And you were dead the minute you touched her."

_Never again._

The barest flick of her wrist opened a river of blood, streaming onto her blade and fingers. The body bucked as life leaked away, struggling to fight even to the end. Captain Isabela watched with stony satisfaction, rising only when she knew there was nothing left beneath her but worm food.

She climbed to the top of the stairs, turning swiftly to follow her allies. She'd barely taken a dozen steps when the sound of rapid footfall began racing to meet her. Out of the shadows the white of a triumphant grin was the first thing she saw.

"I needed my shit!" The elf laughed as she ran past, both hands clutching a huge satchel. Behind her followed Aveline at the same frantic speed. The guard captain didn't even bother to say a word, just shook her head helplessly as she went by. Last of all was Hawke.

"She needed her shit." The Champion echoed the explanation, just as confused. She didn't slow for a second, only grabbed Isabela's arm and pulled her to match pace, smiling as they hurried toward another impossible escape. Over the noise of their own pounding steps Isabela could make out the sound of angry yelling and many, many more feet. All coming after them.

_We need to get out of here. Shit._

* * *

Cassandra Pentaghast's was a black and white mind. She spent the first 18 years of her life hating mages. From her countrymen that were so obsessed with spirits of death, to her uncle the Mortalitasi, to the maleficar that had cut down her brother: she had many reasons to want all magic destroyed and its users locked away. Everything turned inside out when she'd had to rely on an entire Circle of mages to save the Divine. She shocked herself by falling in love with Regalyan, making a mage her first (and for many years _only_ ) lover. She was entrusted by Divine Beatrix with the sacred task of protecting the Chantry from all threats and learned there were far more dangerous corruptions than magic.

Her thoughts and judgment bounced back and forth rapidly with the chaotic events of recent years. Anders blew up the Kirkwall Chantry: mages were bad. The Templar's broke free from control and went on a killing rampage: mages were good. The explosion at Haven was clearly magical: bad. Mages helped seal the rift: good. Corypheus was a magister: bad. Ancient elven magic destroyed him: good.

Traversing such distant mental extremes was exhausting.

Her time with the Inquisition forced Cassandra to understand that the world wasn't black and white. They walked through a hundred shades of grey each day. The Inquisitor, in particular, helped her find that balance within herself; a perspective where good and bad weren't absolutes. Ten – no, even five – years ago Seeker Pentaghast would never have pledged to follow anyone but a Divine. She couldn't have tolerated the thought of being in a relationship with a superior. She certainly wouldn't have considered being with a woman, not because it wasn't right for others but because it just wasn't right for her. Then Inquisitor Trevelyan came along and she was right. For everything. As a leader, a friend and love; nothing with Eve felt wrong. _Not even taking the Maker's name in vain from behind the altar of an empty chapel._ The woman had shattered the last of Cassandra's dichotomous ideas and cast black and white to the winds.

Truly, she'd come a long way and made incredible changes to her thinking and life. However, one tiny problem remained: she still didn't like mages.

It wasn't even a personal objection to magic anymore, she'd set those prejudices aside. It was the fact that mages were so bloody impossible to trust! For every honest, open and useful magic user she met, there were a dozen more just on the brink of setting you on fire or surrendering to the demons. Even within the Inquisition! Solas had lied to them all. Vivienne had her own political agenda. Morrigan pursued her personal mission. Fiona sat on a mountain of secrets. The only mage Cassandra felt vaguely comfortable around was Dorian and that comfort was vague indeed, given the sort of questions he liked to ask.

Mages were just plain difficult and the Seeker had given up trying to pretend they weren't. The woman riding alongside herself and Trevelyan now was yet another example. Solace refused to make any promises about support or alliance but she agreed to journey to Val Royeaux and meet with the Divine. Any time Cassandra or the Inquisitor asked questions about her Tranquility or the Rite of Reversal she grew evasive, carefully replying with polite but useless answers. She would not reveal how she broke Tranquility, or when, or with whom. It was aggravating since she was so candid about all other topics in her life.

In the hours of their ride down the Frostbacks they learned about the unhealed scars across her back from fighting with fellow apprentices as a child. Along the Imperial Highway she disclosed the events of her Harrowing: a confusing encounter with both a Desire demon and a spirit that claimed to be Faith but her instructors felt was more likely Pride. Passing Montsimmard sparked a conversation about The Nightflower Garden and her friends there. On that subject she shared far more than Cassandra cared to hear and the Seeker glared daggers at Trevelyan every time she asked another question. Really? They had to argue about which feathers were best for an Orlesian Tickler? (Though she did make a few mental notes during their discussion of scented oils.)

"You clearly had extensive freedoms for a Circle mage. Why keep running away?" The Seeker managed to redirect the conversation as they finally stopped to set camp for the night.

"Less rules isn't the same as freedom. I still didn't have a choice about being in the Circle." Solace frowned, turning the place into her own personal curse. Eve led their horses to a clearing of sweet grass and began unpacking supplies. The Inquisitor was content to let her Seeker poke for truth.

"But you stayed after the war began. You could have left any time, many of the Tranquil did." Cassandra watched for the hint of discomfort that flickered across the mage's face anytime Tranquility was mentioned. It was a subtle twitch of her mouth, like the urge to bite her lip being desperately resisted. Could she answer without giving away the timing of her Reversal? Had she been Tranquil through the entirety of the war or only a portion?

"If they were needed, they went. Mostly it was the ones who thought their only useful future lay in staying with all the other mages," the blonde put a sarcastic twist on 'useful' as well, "A Circle isn't a building but the people running it. I had always resisted the rules and suddenly those were gone. No more Templar control, no more mage hierarchy. Not to mention that outside the walls of the tower Templars were losing their minds and mages were being slaughtered. We were left alone. Staying seemed wise."

"So long as the Templars didn't return." Cassandra nodded understanding, masking her annoyance.

"But, as soon as you thought they did . . ." Eve unfurled her bedroll, an appreciative whistle denoting the speed with which Solace had fled yesterday.

"Swords and armor mean 'guard' to a criminal, Templar to a mage and money to a whore. I reacted on instinct." The blonde gave a small shrug of apology as she dropped onto a tree stump and rummaged in her satchel

"And we lost two days. I suppose it could've been worse. There's still plenty of the Chant to be sung." The Inquisitor had her own brand of relationship with the Maker, one that seldom included listening to hours of holy words. Cassandra might once have found such an approach offensive but on Trevelyan it was oddly endearing. She held faith in her own way and supported anyone else who did the same. Never once did she take issue with the Seeker's own more passionate and traditional devotion. She had, however, confessed that she loved watching the Nevarran pray. _That was what led to the altar incident._

"They should be through the Canticle of Benediction by now. Erudition will begin tomorrow." Cassandra mentally reviewed the days of the Chant, an exercise that kept her mind from wandering too far.

"Ah, the origins of spirits and demons. Not exactly adequate preparation for meeting any of them," Eve pointed out, clearly recalling the first time she'd come face to face with a Pride demon.

"Fortunately you were both adaptable and intrepid," Cassandra smirked. She could vividly remember that same day, watching the Maker's Chosen do battle while simultaneously sealing a rift. If Eve had been overwhelmed by the armored monster that descended on them she gave no sign. Not until collapsing into the Seeker's arms. _Stubborn and dramatic even then._

"I had to be. That thing wasn't half as scary as you or Leliana," The Inquisitor shot her a wink, then turned to the mage to explain, "The future Divine Victoria. You're going to enjoy meeting her."

"I highly doubt that." Solace's laugh didn't sound right.

Someone else might have been startled or confused by the words but Cassandra was a warrior; her first instinct was always to fight. Danger prickled the hair on her neck before she even saw Solace's hand in motion, releasing a projectile in the air. Her sword was drawn in an instant but the runestone hit the ground with a thump and a low whine of magic. The invisible spell had no sensation as it washed over Cassandra but she felt her fingers go numb, sword dropping to the grass. Just yards away she saw the Inquisitor sliding to the ground, surrendering to gravity as she could feel her own muscles doing. The world tilted upwards, then away, then vanished to black as her eyes gave into the weight of their own lids. There was no pain when she hit the ground, body numb and heavy as rock. With her last sense she heard the clatter of hooves stampeding into the distance. _Andraste's bloody sword! I'm going to kill that damned girl . . ._

* * *


	11. Act III:iii Fiends and Festivity

On the scale of impossible tasks, with 1 being slaying a dragon and 10 the chance of winning an argument with her mother, Morrigan fancied that tonight's aims were roughly 6. Accessing a private party without invitation, recognizing an unknown woman in a ballroom of strangers (let alone the correct assassin at an Antivan affair), keeping Zevran unsuspected by the Crows, disguising Varric's identity, wearing this damned dress . . .Maybe it was closer to a 7.

"Ravishing as ever, dear witch." Zevran's eyes moved appreciatively over Morrigan's form as they approached the Countess' estate. She was dressed in the most elaborate and expensive gown the elf could find, an indulgence he promised was worth the investment.

"'Twill be a relief when I can strip this loathsome color," the mage frowned. Why did everyone insist on her wearing red?

"Ah, a moment I also look forward to with anticipation." Zevran's smile widened despite the bite of her glare. He and Varric were less conspicuous in their matching suits, private bodyguards being a common sight in Antiva City. Case in point: the two heavily armed men standing beside the steward in the entryway.

"The Sorceress of Orlais, here for Countess Oriana's ball, good ser." Zevran gestured grandly to Morrigan's elegant presence as he introduced her.

The steward consulted his scroll of guests, mumbling beneath his breath as he struggled with some of the more complicated names. The guards on either side were the standard private army type, glaring with stony silence as though the sheer knowledge of their muscles should scare everyone. They did observe the brunette woman with slightly more respectful scrutiny, however. The revelation of Morrigan's identity was apparently more interesting than her cleavage, but only barely. That the Empress of Orlais had a private sorceress was well-known. The stories of her services were widespread, fascinating and often only slightly embellished.

"I do not see such a guest. You are mistaken." The steward shook his head, a small flick of his fingers toward the muscled morons giving them permission to do something violent.

"You fool! It's the wrong name. I told you Her Majesty would not send her personal advisor to a mere countess!" Varric burst into hot temper, grabbing the elf's collar, "I shall use your hide to write our apologies to the Empress myself!"

"The night is young," Morrigan's cool authority interrupted the rant and even stayed the guards. Her voice had a way of transfixing an audience, captive to an unidentifiable fear. Most likely the subconscious terror of being turned into toads. They held their breath waiting for her to continue,

"Celene's gifts will not be wasted. We must simply identify her chosen ally. Come, there cannot be many worthy of Orlais' favors in this city." The witch's natural disdain chilled the evening air as she turned away.

"As you wish, my lady," Varric released Zevran and turned back to the steward, "We shall send our apologies to the Countess tomorrow, ser."

The confused servant had been riveted by the foreigners' dramatic interchange but those final words broke his reverie. Morrigan could practically hear his tiny, panicked thoughts of what would happen to him tomorrow should his mistress receive word that he'd turned away the personal envoy of an empress. If this ball was truly about climbing higher on the rungs of nobility, they had just dangled a rope to the top.

"Ser! My Lady, please; surely there has been an oversight on our part," the man leapt forward like someone stabbed a needle in his ass, "Countess Oriana is a great supporter of Orlais. You will find no worthier ally in all Antiva!"

"I do not disobey my mistress the Empress." The Sorceress turned back long enough to make the steward and guards wince under the sharpness of her gaze.

"Surely, my lady, it would cause no harm to Her Majesty's reputation to bring greetings to this house?" Zevran played his part of servile loyalty with enthusiasm. It seemed to Morrigan that the elf enjoyed being dominated just a little too much, "As you wisely said, the evening is young. Could we not return with the favor and friendship of _two_ Antivan allies?"

"You would honor my mistress and this house so much, serra! Even if only for a few minutes of your precious time!" The steward was groveling now, snapping his fingers for the doors to be opened.

"It would be more gracious to offer our apologies in person, Your Sorcerousness." Varric conceded thoughtfully, eyes twinkling as the men were all too distracted to even notice the ridiculous title. Morrigan rolled her eyes at the childish jibe, a gesture that only added to her air of burdened dignity.

"Very well. 'Twould be most polite to offer the greetings and good will of Orlais. We shall spare a portion of this night." She finally surrendered and gracefully swept into the manor. The sniveling steward all but collapsed in a puddle of gratitude, ushering the trio into the ball and introducing them to the next servant. Morrigan dropped a few steps back as they were guided to the ballroom's main entry.

"I truly believe, dwarf, that your tongue should be made illegal," she murmured quietly, noting the smug smile that crept over Varric's expression.

"Oh, it already is. In four gambling rings, two banks and at least one tavern. Never should've kissed that girl." The dwarf's low voice faded to rasping laughter.

* * *

Escaping the Qunari in Kont-aar proved more challenging than expected. It required four changes of direction, two altercations with the guards chasing them, a broken fruit stall in the central square and finally refuge in the basement of a tea seller. The smell of cinnamon and ginger did not blend well with the crushed melon slime that was smeared over Hawke's armor. Amidst crates of herbs and spice all four women paused in the shadows to take stock. Running like an army of genlocks is on your heels doesn't leave a lot of time for questions and -once they had gotten their breath back -everyone had some.

"How are we getting out of here?"

"Did you have to steal that, Isabela?"

"Damn. Do you think this stuff stains?"

"Who are you people?"

"Who are you?!" Isabela's reply was sharper and louder than the rest of the confusion, "What are you? That Qamek should've left your mind in shreds."

"Fun fact," the elf smiled as she continued waiting for her heart to slow, "If you're planning on stealing from the Qunari, build up immunity to saar-qamek first."

"Just what was it you stole anyway?" Aveline was no fan of the Qunari but she generally liked to know which laws had been broken and by whom.

"This and that," the elf readjusted her satchel of gear, a secretive smile flitting across her face, "By the way, are we doing names or is this one of those anonymous jobs?"

"Hawke, Isabela, Aveline." The Champion indicated each of her party before raising an eyebrow in query.

The grime covering the elf effectively hid all her features. It was partly the dirt of her cell but also had hints of coal and grease; the deliberate face paint of a nighttime disguise. There was no clue to her identity besides the distinctive ears. _It can't be. It won't._ Hawke's brain had been stuttering and arguing with itself for days. From the moment Leliana told them they had to rescue an elven thief from the Qunari she'd had the same excited suspicion. _She'd never turn Tal-Vashoth. Not that one._ Maker help them if it was; Isabela would stab that woman on sight. Not fatally, of course, more of a flesh wound warning. The pirate really didn't like people trying to steal what was hers.

"Oh, right," the thief struck out her hand, "I'm Elani."

"Pleased to meet you." Hawke shook hands, letting out a small breath of relief. _Not Tallis._ Not that she'd mind working with the Ben-Hassrath rogue again; she had impressive skills. Plus, Hawke rather enjoyed seeing her pirate's territorial streak. For this mission, however, she probably needed to conserve her strength and Isabela tended to inflict more wounds when she was jealous. When they got back from Chateau Haine she'd had to visit Anders every day for a week.

"Lovely. Warm fuzzies all around. Now, how do we get out of this ballsed-up Ox pen of a city?" Isabela's honey-rich tone wrapped its sarcasm around them all. She uncorked a bottle of liquor she'd managed to swipe on their race through the market.

"Easy. We're sitting on a shipment headed for Ayesleigh," Elani patted one of the crates affectionately, "They'll be loading up around midnight to haul in the dark. The horn heads are used to the cart coming and going at night – safer to move this merchandise when the temperature's cooled. Wagon runner owes me a favor so he'll have no problem slipping us in."

"Tea has to travel at night?" Aveline's eyes narrowed suspiciously. She could positively smell deception.

"Ha! Not tea. That stuff is nasty in the first place, can't be ruined," the elf shook her head, clearly pleased with shrewd allies, "But the poison underneath? A bit more fragile. Qunari make the best toxins you'll find outside Antiva. Getting hold of them here isn't so hard but sending them to some bastard in Tevinter or Orlais that wants to off the competition can get complicated."

"Smugglers. Poison smugglers." Kirkwall's Guard Captain groaned, dropping her forehead into her hands.

"Tits up, big girl. Anything that's not slavery is free enterprise." Isabela laughed, an avid enthusiast of any freedom that offered profit. Hawke had a feeling she knew what the _Siren's Call II_ would have for its next cargo.

"Speaking of free," Elani's lips worked around the word like a foreign language, "We should probably talk about my price."

"We helped you escape!" Aveline protested, offended to the core. Even after 10 years of friendship with Hawke and her many unsavory associates, the guardswoman still could be surprised by the crassness of mankind.

"Right, I'll waive the usual retention fee."

The crassness of everyone, really.

* * *

Finding an assassin while they're working is nearly impossible. For many good reasons, not the least of which being how much harder it is to fulfill a contract if you waltz into a room adorned in black clothes and poison darts. Anyone that stupid was quickly removed. Usually by the guild if not guards.

Leliana's companions had only one clue about Lady de Vici: a symbol. The house of Vici had risen from Treviso in the early days of the Crows and set themselves apart as masters of poisonous death. In their pride they fostered vanity. Nightshade was the first and deadliest poison of their fame. All members of the family bore a tiny mark of the plant, honoring their ancestors.

There are certain steps one can take to find a killer whose assignment depends on NOT being found. Sweeping the property for traps is the first and most time consuming task. Observing every servant bearing food or drink is next, verifying that each is an authentic domestic and not an impersonator with a specially marked 'treat' on their tray. The last step is arguably the most crucial and annoying: identify the target and stay at their side all night. It's a guaranteed way of meeting the assassin, though seldom under pleasant circumstances.

Morrigan had spent nearly an hour mingling and making small talk with a variety of pompous blowhards while carefully watching Zevran flirt with every servant in the room. Varric had vanished the instant they entered the ballroom, beyond qualified and eager to go trap hunting. That left their 'Sorceress of Orlais' the task of identifying the dead man. Before he was dead, as Varric had so annoyingly insisted.

Thus far, she'd tolerated conversation with nine paranoid merchants, five tipsy noblewomen, two hormonal princes and the fatuous Countess Oriana. Not even the hostess of the evening could point out the noble who'd apparently become deserving of death. No one in Antiva cared to interfere in the Crows' business, lest they make targets of themselves. Morrigan was about to wrap her fingers around the throat of a giggling marquess when Zevran appeared at her side.

"The Viscount of Bastion. He ordered the execution of a Crow for killing a merchant. A merchant who'd been supplying handsome bribes." The elf supplied the secret while licking something sticky and indulgent off his fingers.

"And you are sure?" The mage turned to follow the rogue as he moved purposefully across the room.

"Guests drop mere crumbs of gossip to each other, my beauty. Only servants hear everything." Zevran assured her with a satisfied wink. He strode directly to a large man with an even larger beard. If a bear had been captured, strategically shaved, dressed in silk and then fed copious amounts of liquor, it might approximate what Morrigan saw.

"Viscount Urbano, a pleasure." Zevran gave an elaborate bow. The hairy man looked down on the elf for a long second and then belched grandly in reply.

"My lady begs introduction: Sorceress Morrigan of the Court of Lions." This poetic description for the rule of house Valmont usually impressed audiences. Urbano seemed unmoved.

"A sorceress? Truly? Can you do magic? You must do some for me!" The enthusiasm came from a bubbling blonde at his side. Her obvious excitement and scant clothing quickly caught Zevran's attention.

"She cannot indulge in vulgar displays, you know," between the elf's words lay the suggestion that he could supply any desired vulgarity, "We are here to assure your safety, lady -?"

"Nelli!" the blonde's hand slapped over her own mouth, mortified by the volume of her outburst, "Sorry! I'm Nelli. Not lady anything."

"Ah, but you are a lady of feeling and warmth. That makes you noble in any court of mortal opinion." Zevran's charm was layered on as thick as a dowager's perfume. Morrigan fought the urge to gag.

"You said something about being safe. Are we in danger?" Nelli finally recovered from having her hand kissed like some Andrastean relic.

"Not now, dearest." The elf didn't seem to care that the girl's escort stood just inches away. But then, the Viscount Urbano didn't seem to care that another man was drooling over his companion like a starved mabari with a steak. Morrigan instantly decided that Antiva had one advantage over Orlais: no one here pretended the Courtesans were anything else. A whore, no matter her price, was still a whore.

"But it is too thrilling to imagine! Someone here is a threat?" Huge lilac eyes grew impossibly larger as she dropped her voice to a loud whisper. She was as dramatic as the damned rogue.

"A famed assassin, in fact," Zevran confirmed, caught up in the game of seduction, "It is rumored your Viscount is to be the target this night. A task that will prove impossible now that we are here, I assure you."

Had the fool forgotten that the target didn't matter? Morrigan stifled a groan, eyes sweeping the upper gallery for any sign of Varric. The only reason this barbarous Viscount was important was because he was their sole link to the mysterious Lady de Vici.

"I feel safer already, ser. You are charming," the blonde blushed but her eyes slid from Zevran to the mage at his side, "And your lady is enchanting. Or is that too silly to say?"

"Not at all, I quite agree." The former Crow grinned, clearly enjoying the idea of his newest plaything being drawn to the impossible. Whatever lurid fantasy he was inventing behind that fanged smile, Morrigan had no desire to participate.

"Zevran got a lead?" Varric's voice arrived from the vicinity of Morrigan's elbow.

"Of a sort." The mage sighed, watching the elf flirt like it was a competitive sport.

"The manor is clear. The only traps are set for thieves." The dwarf reported his own finding, eyebrow momentarily twitching when the Viscount's Mistress-of-the-Month laughed at some words whispered into her ear by their Antivan friend.

"You are delightful," Nelli chastised, "But I must stop being so rude! Your lady, Morrigan, was it? I mustn't ignore her."

"Tis not necessary for you to be concerned." The mage easily waved off any of the blonde's attention. It was more important to keep watching the crowd. So long as the Viscount was within reach – admittedly drowning himself in expensive brandy - they had opportunity to spot the Vici assassin.

"But you're so beautiful! I love your hair it's so," the courtesan struggled for a word, gesturing to the style of the tresses, "So spikey!"

"She's got you there." Varric snickered, eyeing the knot at the back of Morrigan's head.

"And these bits," Nelli reached out suddenly, brushing the strands near the mage's eyes, "They're like dagger blades framing your face!"

"A very apropos description. Our sorceress is dangerously sharp." Zevran agreed, mildly confused by this shift in the flirtatious woman's interests. There was a predatory feel to the way she stepped closer to the apostate. Morrigan was equal parts confused, annoyed and amused by the blatant move.

"I would imagine," the blonde's purr pushed interest straight into suggestion, "Even her tongue must be deadly."

"You will be fortunate to never find out." The apostate's lip curled, aggravation and impatience snarling at the edge of her scant civility.

"Aw, come on, Spike," Varric put extra emphasis on the nickname, "Play nice."

"I gotta piss." The Viscount Urbano surprised them by making a sound other than flatulence and belching. _Truly a prize example of the nobility_. Morrigan's distaste spread further across her face. When a man was that obnoxious it was small wonder he had to pay for attractive company.

"This way, honey bear!" Nelli dropped all interest in the sorceress and her companions. She skipped over and took her escort's hand to lead him away. He was so unsteady on his feet he had to throw an arm around her shoulders. It was that movement that paralyzed Morrigan. When the blonde curls were swept aside there was a flash of color on the back of the courtesan's neck. Even with the steadily increasing distance it was clear to see: a violet flower inked on skin.

Before she could open her mouth to speak, the mark shifted; twisted by the turn of the assassin's neck as she looked back over her shoulder. Lady de Vici caught Morrigan's eye just before vanishing into the tumultuous throng of the crowd. She didn't nod, didn't wink or smile. There was only the faintest movement of one brow, a twitch like a challenge shooting across the room. Then she and her victim were gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! All 3 OC's are in play.


	12. Act III:iv The Assassin

Morrigan spent half an hour scouring the crowd of the party, desperately hunting for any sign of de Vici and her date/victim. As soon as she'd seen the mark of the nightshade the apostate raced after her but the woman had vanished. More shockingly, so had Viscount Urbano and that wasn't a man easily hidden. She cursed Zevran once more. Assassins were supposed to recognize each other, not act like fennecs in mating season!

The music and noise of an Antivan party was faster and heavier than in Orlais. Nonetheless, Morrigan could feel when the first tendrils of panic began cutting through the clamor. Threads of frightened voices, small squeaks of shock, she caught every sound and moved straight towards them. The guests became more boisterous, pressing closer together, shoving one another along and she let them carry her.

"He's dead!" The first true scream tore through every other sound and ignited echoing terror. The tide began to turn, people scattering in every direction, desperate to get away from anything that might be danger. (And at an Antivan ball that was everything). Morrigan forced her way upstream to finally burst onto a garden balcony. Guards and a handful of braver men had gathered around the prone Viscount Urbano. It took three of them to roll the massive man over, revealing the discolored flesh of his face. His skin had turned a pale shade of blue, even his . . . well, he had wanted to relieve himself.

"Shit, that was definitely poison." Varric appeared beside Morrigan, shaking his head as he observed the dead noble. Zevran also arrived, kneeling beside the victim and feeling his wrist.

"This is most recent. She must still be near." The elf got to his feet, leaning over the balcony rail to scrutinize the darkness beyond.

"Right. Lover boy, check the garden. Morrigan, you and I are splitting the perimeter." Varric's command drove them all in separate directions.

The guests had streamed out of Countess Oriana's estate like blood from a wound, flowing chaotically into the streets, racing for the safety of their bodyguards and carriages. Hundreds of feet had trampled in every direction, destroying any trail. Morrigan looped north around the walls of the manor, furiously scouring every shadow for any clue. There were shoes flung aside in panicked flight, pieces of broken jewelry glittering from between stones and shrubs, accessories caught on prickly branches and discarded in haste. No sign of poisoned weapons. The only blonde hair Morrigan spied was on Varric as he approached from the opposite side.

"This place is worse than the Hanged Man after one of Isabela's brawls." The dwarf sighed, equally empty handed.

"The Countess has collapsed and been taken to her rooms. The ballroom and gardens are empty save for a few guards." Zevran also jogged up with his report.

"Masterfully done. Our assassin carried out her contract right before our eyes and we still didn't see anything." Morrigan's scornful laugh was short and bitter. The woman had played them expertly, listening like some impressionable virgin to Zevran's confident boasts and all the while making them fools.

"If she were not the Crows' finest we would not have to go to such lengths to find her." The elf objected, feeling the cut of insult in her words.

"You are blaming her for being good at her work? High praise. I am sure no one could ever say the same of you." The apostate felt her jaw clenching as tight as her fists. This night of tortured vexation was speeding rapidly toward breaking her patience.

"Give it a rest you two," Varric interrupted before Zevran's sharp reply could make things worse, "Finding her tonight was our best shot but not the only one. Let's head back to the inn and start planning for tomorrow. If we're going to meet her on her home ground we're gonna need to be ready."

Morrigan paused, anger still crackling along her every nerve like magical fire begging for release. A deep breath let her swallow it down, bringing her cool façade back into place. All three started to walk but froze when the noise of hoof beats came clattering over cobblestone. The apostate spotted the moving shadow first, a dark carriage careening around the corner. Instinctively, they all began to retreat backward but the vehicle was coming straight towards them at full speed.

The black hansom jerked to a halt with a groan of metal wheels and neighing protest. It occurred to Morrigan that on the list of their enemies in Antiva City they had just added one more: an assassin that didn't care to be found. A twitch of movement from behind the curtained window brought Bianca into Varric's hands, armed in an instant. His first arrow shot straight through the door as it opened, sinking into the far wall and quivering. Their assailant rose out before them, not even blinking at the crossbow aimed dead at her throat.

"You were looking for me?" Such a cunning smile was completely out of place for Nelli the courtesan but perfectly suited to Lady de Vici.

* * *

Isabela's lips tasted like all the spices that filled the air of the smuggler's cart. Hawke breathed deep, inhaling tea and flesh and heat. Agile fingers were already finding the buckles of her armor, unstrapping each piece without any trace of fumbling. The pirate had stripped her Champion so many times she could do it blind. Moonlight creeping in through the cracks of the cart was like all romance to her: luxurious and irrelevant. The scrape of nails over bare skin ripped a moan from Hawke's lips, lost to the hungry mouth devouring her own.

Her brain was surrendering as rapidly as every muscle could be touched, shivering and clenching beneath the caress of practiced hands. Isabela was a force of nature. She was the tide swelling over sands, washing away the entire world into salt and wetness and the irresistible rhythms of her body. Hawke wrested one hand free of the black mane that she'd clenched like a lifeline. For the thousandth time she blessed every power in the universe for the pirate's customary garb, fingers easily meeting the smooth skin of a thigh. Her hand traversed the familiar lithe muscle, brushing beneath the lower hem of Isabela's tunic, digging into the flesh of her hip. The bruising grip elicited a soft purr deep in the sailor's throat, felt as much as heard.

"Such a tease." The taunt was whispered over Hawke's lips before carving a wet trail down her throat. The Champion's mouth was sore and dry and still she longed for the taste that had caressed her tongue moments before. She needed to be lost in this woman. Her fingers found their goal, head thudding painfully against wood when Isabela arched into the touch, profanity gasping in her ear. _Maker's balls, flaming tits, holy bitten ass cheeks -_ no one could curse like the captain when she had Hawke's hands on her.

"Isabela." Breathing that perfect name was all the reply she could manage; her own private prayer, curse and plea.

"By the Maker! You two! We aren't asleep!" Aveline's biting voice scythed through the haze of the Champion's mind, dragging her out of the moment.

"Don't care!" Isabela shot back breathlessly before resuming her plunder of Hawke's neck, marking the Champion as her own. Each possessive caress of her lips was a statement. _Mine._ Hawke's fingers reveled in her pleasure _,_ hungrily reaching for more. _Yours_ _._

"Are they always like this?" Elani didn't sound as scandalized as the guard. The elf's tone was closer to intrigued. More than Aveline's prudish criticism, the reminder of a stranger in their midst was a cold splash of reality. The women weren't even concealed by the tea crates, just obscured in shadow on the far side of the wagon.

"'Bela." The Champion sighed, realizing they'd forgotten themselves again. It happened far too easily. Especially after a day's battle. A few playful words, some flirtatious touching, the first kiss or two and then suddenly nothing mattered beyond getting hold of each other and seeing who would come undone the loudest.

"Sodding bollocks! Seriously, Hawke? Damn you!" The pirate groaned as she felt her lover pull away, her frustrated pout nearly wrecking the Champion's fragile resolve.

"We can't go making our new friend too jealous," Hawke teased as she pulled her armor back into place.

"She can bloody well join in," Isabela huffed, eyes darting to the elf appraisingly, "She looks like she'd be up for it."

"Utter slattern." Aveline rolled her eyes.

"It'd be an education for you, prude. Just think, you could surprise Donnic with some new tricks and a bit of fun at the Rose." If the pirate was to be deprived the pleasure of Hawke's attentions, she'd just find another way to blow off steam.

"These two are definitely always like this," Hawke explained to Elani, nodding to the two sniping women, "You get used to it."

"Keep it up, sweet cheeks. At this rate I'll cut you off before the week is out." Isabela's scowl underscored her threat. Rage demons had nothing on an unsated pirate queen.

"Not when we have two days at sea, you won't." The Fereldan rogue laughed, wrapping an arm around the sailor and pulling her close. Hawke rested her forehead against her lover's, apologizing with light kisses until she felt the woman smile.

"Maybe I'll have Celso find a nice scenic wind for us." The captain hummed, finally surrendering to the chaste but comfortable embrace that had taken years for her to get used to.

"Just go to sleep, whore. You can molest whoever you want in your dreams." Aveline threw an arm over her eyes, willing herself toward slumber's escape.

"In that case," Isabela's teeth flashed briefly in the dark, "See you soon, Big Girl."

* * *

The first thing Varric noticed on entering Lady de Vici's foyer was the traps. He spotted seven within the first fifteen feet. Three rigged tiles on the floor, two lures scattered on the furnishings and spring wires on the light fixtures. Those were simply the first ones he could spot. Isabela would likely find half a dozen more. This was definitely a woman who was deadly serious about privacy and felt others should be the same. Or simply dead, whichever they preferred.

The second thing he noticed was an unconscious blonde propped in a chair against the wall. Young, pretty and dressed for a fancy evening ball. She was so motionless she might've been a corpse save for the small whistle of breath through parted lips.

"Viscount Urbano's actual date?" Zevran also eyed the sleeping girl.

"He is too revolting a man to be entertained by one woman for long. He'll take any whore on his arm, assuming she's attractive, stupid and – oh, he prefers blondes." De Vici smiled before abruptly shedding her mane of golden curls, revealing a thick black braid. She grimaced at the wig and flung it aside, the harmless hair triggering a spring wire and vanishing in a jet of flame.

The unexpected hostess led her visitors deeper into the manor, mindful that they each stepped only where she instructed. By the time they reached the study Varric had counted fourteen painful ways to die and six more that would be good stories if you survived. While Morrigan was eager to get straight to business there was not a chance of that happening until Zevran had satisfied his professional curiosities. Varric couldn't help wondering himself, how _did_ she get away so quickly?

There was an interchange between the two assassins that the dwarf vaguely followed. Catalyst alchemy, sensitization, toxic exposure; none of it quite made sense until the woman gave a light laugh and pointed out that Antivan brandy – albeit the finest in the world – is still technically a poison. Many a nobleman, merchant and fool had drunk themselves to death over a period of years. She'd simply needed to make it happen in a single night. Varric recalled Urbano with his swaying legs, bloodshot eyes, slurred words and lack of responses; he hadn't been drunk, he'd been dying. A process begun from the moment he took a first sip of brandy and finished long after the blonde escort had already abandoned his side.

"I see, most artful," Zevran laughed appreciatively, "But how did you introduce the catalyst poison? To be sure he had enough you must have dosed him through the night. There was no opportunity to drug his food or wine without others becoming wise as well. Did you use a needle, a sharp ring?"

"I find oral delivery is still the most effective." De Vici's smile would've kept her secret, if not for the telling way one finger dragged casually across her lower lip. A true kiss of death. Varric's sudden bark of laughter startled his friends.

"Antivans and their drama! Let me know when that shit's out of your blood, ok? I'll want to have a proper drink with you." The dwarf finally understood why their hostess had poured wine for everyone else but only water for herself.

"If your macabre fascinations have been satisfied," Morrigan's cold annoyance sliced the air, "Perhaps now we can finally discuss our business in being here?"

"You did not simply desire the pleasure of my company?" De Vici's lifted brow stripped any innocence from her tone.

"I most certainly would be amenable to both business and pleasure," Zevran volunteered, unflinching under the witch's glare.

"Please, Lady Morrigan," the assassin gestured to an empty seat, settling regally behind her own desk, "Do tell me what I can do for you. You'll find my skills quite versatile."

"Varric." The apostate refused to move, her spine straight as a steel bar and muscles twice as tight.

"Right, business. Let's get down to it." The dwarf leapt in at his ally's cue. Morrigan wasn't in any condition to talk. The Antivan woman was having an odd effect on the mage. It was like watching a wolf facing a viper, reconciling conflicting instincts to attack and to flee. On the edges of her controlled expression were warring flashes of pride and survival. For someone like Morrigan those were the only possible reactions when she sensed danger. De Vici was a threat.

Even as he spoke, outlining their purpose and needs, Varric realized he was suffering a similar discomfort. He didn't feel threatened but instinct kept telling him something was wrong. Something about the assassin was off. It was a subconscious hint, a niggling warning that prickled the hairs on the back of his neck. Perhaps it was just the fact that no woman so beautiful was ever quite right?

_I smell weird shit._

It didn't help that, as he talked, Varric could watch Lady de Vici watching him back. Her eyes were the same color as the nightshade tattoo and promised that no matter how innocent her expression, she was taking notes. Then her glance would roll to Zevran and the shift in angle of the lines around her eyes expressed that she had no need of notes for him; she already knew him inside out. It was when her gaze fell on Morrigan – as it seemed to more and more frequently – that Varric saw trouble. Dangerous creatures could recognize each other. They could be fascinating. They could be a challenge.

" –The letters Divine Victoria found indicate that in the Steel 30's your ancestor had managed to locate the Andrastean blood line. They were just about to fulfill the Chantry's contract when Antiva fell to the Qunari. 150 years of war is bad for business, even for assassins. By the time the country was free, all the contracts and records from that time were in disarray and got shelved. So, once we get your family's documents from the Crows' Archive, you give us the cypher and we'll have a family name to attach to Andraste. After that it'll be Her Worshipfullness who gets to decide what to do with the information." Varric finished, leaning back in the overstuffed chair and wishing he could kick up his feet now that he was done.

De Vici had stayed quiet through the entire explanation, nodding occasionally, casually undoing the braid of her hair. When she rose from her seat the dwarf was certain she was about to either laugh, agree or accuse him of being insane. Instead, she tilted forward and shook out the last of the coiled tension from her hair. The twisted strands fell back into place as she straightened and she paused to smooth the waves before leaning against the edge of her desk.

"No." She crossed her arms and pinned the dwarf to his chair with a glare that should have been a javelin. It was rare for the storyteller to be speechless but, this once, he couldn't think of what to say. The confusion of the night, the weird feeling of Lady de Vici and now this unexpected response; he couldn't find his words.

"You refuse?" Morrigan demanded, offended by the very idea, "For what reason?"

"Take your pick," De Vici began counting off on manicured nails, "Stealing from the Crows, allying with their enemies – yes, Mister Varric, I know who you are - betraying a family failure, sharing our most protected secrets. Any of these choices would be dangerously foolish but combined? It would be the end of my life. Literally; most Crow contracts are eliminating failures and traitors from our ranks."

"I should have known. Assassins are all cowards at heart." The witch scoffed, managing to look down on the other woman though they were the same height.

"Insulting me does not change the facts." The Antivan woman straightened off her desk, stalking toward the mage.

"'Tis not the facts that must change but you." Morrigan refused to back down, squaring off against the assault on her personal space.

"Ladies, please." Varric found his tongue when he felt the faint tingle of magic beginning to charge in the room. The apostate didn't need her staff to blow this woman to shreds.

"My apologies if you were expecting some moral and selfless idiot who would leap at your offer of noble sacrifice," De Vici would have rolled her eyes if they weren't locked so forcefully on her enemy, "Assassins don't need to be heroes when we can be smart instead. We know how to survive. I used to think mages were the same."

"Surely we can continue this discussion without hostility," Zevran was also anxiously trying to calm the escalating anger, "Two women as sensible and beautiful as yourselves -."

"Shut up!" Both women shouted, the combined heat of their glare sending Zevran for safety near Varric.

"You'd rather live your life in fear of your employers rather than simply own your fate. It's so much easier to be commanded, isn't it?" Morrigan's sneer didn't bother with hate, she had moved straight on to the contempt that ignores anger.

"You sound like you would know," the assassin hissed back, close enough that the witch felt the heat of every word, "You know the taste of obedience, don't you? Being commanded, controlled, manipulated. Who had you all twisted up in chains so that I can still hear them rattling in your head? The Circle? An owner? Some husband or lover?"

Varric could see Morrigan's eyes simultaneously growing dark and turning bright. Emotion feeding magic and both raging for release. There would be no stopping them in time. Without a word he grabbed Zevran and moved to get behind the sofa.

"Are those the sort of people who can control you? No wonder you fear everyone. Trained in death but you can't even kill your ghosts." The mage's fingers had begun to curl, clenching the weapon of the invisible.

"I can kill anything." De Vici's hand shot out a fraction of a second faster, the dagger appearing like magic. The blade made brief contact with Morrigan's rising fist but couldn't stop the unleashed spell. The assassin was blasted across the room even as the mage caught her bleeding hand and stumbled backwards. Varric leapt over the couch, rushing to his injured ally.

"You ok? Come on, use your words, witch, not another spell." The dwarf snapped his fingers in front of Morrigan's unfocused eyes. The magic must have had a recoil effect. He glanced over to his compatriot, the elf's solicitous charms apologizing as he gathered de Vici from the wreckage of a book case.

"An impulsive loss of judgment. Nothing more." The Antivan lady waved Zevran's attention away as she composed herself.

Varric wasn't sure if she was referring to herself or her attacker but he knew it couldn't happen again. Just as his mind was beginning to speed with solutions for this colossal balls-up of a situation, something caught the corner of his eye. De Vici had caught a glancing blow on her cheek and was bleeding. The white silk she used to dab at the wound bore a crest. A familiar one. From this distance the dwarf thought his eyes might be playing tricks but there was no denying the distinctive, florid styling of those initials.

"Zev, take Morrigan outside." Varric nodded to the study doors that led onto a balcony. Hopefully that wasn't booby trapped as well.

"I do not –," the mage began to protest, pulling away from Zevran's proffered hand.

"Go cool off, Spike. Not literally though, no ice spells." The dwarf teased lightheartedly but made sure the set of his jaw and eyes left no room for argument. Once his two companions had exited and the doors closed, he turned to de Vici. It felt like the final round of Wicked Grace and he already had Four Daggers.

"I think, Lady de Vici, we have some unexpected common ground." He pointed one finger towards the monogrammed kerchief still in her hand.

"A preference for expensive silks?" The assassin tilted her head, light humor disguising the suspicion in her eyes.

"MT. I know those initials. In fact, I'd bet you a hundred sovereigns that if I held that cloth in my hands I could tell you the exact perfume it was scented with," Varric saw the glimmer of confusion in violet eyes giving way to the first tendrils of fear, "You see, the T used to stand for Tethras. Until my cousin died and dear Mae went back to her maiden name. Held more sway in the Magisterium, I guess. Vints don't much care for dwarves."

"Your cousin," de Vici struggled to connect the threads quicker than Varric unwound her own, "Thorold? I never had the pleasure myself but she always spoke very highly of her husband."

"As she should," Varric prowled the study, casually inspecting books and displays before turning to look dead at her, "But here's where it gets interesting, Vici. Mae only gives those kerchiefs to special people. The ones who've done her a favor or caught her eye. She sent a few to our army commander and I swear he didn't know what to do with anything so fine. He was her type. Problem is: you're not."

Varric's cousin had been a classic dwarf: stout and robust. That was the sort of lover Mae always liked, oozing masculinity in a large and preferably beefy package. Cullen fit her tastes well enough, though she'd probably like Blackwall better with his extra thick facial fur.

"She's hardly mine either." De Vici rolled her eyes, dropping into an overstuffed chair and continuing to dab at the blood on her face. There was no single clue that pulled the whole picture together for Varric. It was rather like staring at a massive confusion of colors until your eyes blurred and then suddenly everything snapped into the focus of a sunrise. The tone of Vici's voice, the laughing ease with which she dismissed any hint of scandal, the warm affection in her eyes at mention of the woman, the confidence of a hundred secrets guarded and shared.

"I get it. You're one of her 'friends,'" Varric had a gift for putting a dozen layers of meaning behind a single word and de Vici heard them all, "She said there were a few but damn me if I didn't think I'd ever meet any of them."

"I don't know what you -," the protest was too rushed to be anything but lies.

"Give it a rest, Vici. I know bullshit when I hear it, usually because it's coming out of my mouth. Do the Crows know?" The dwarf waved off any attempt at excuse or explanation.

"No. They don't." The assassin visibly deflated, all argument leaving her lungs in a sigh. She was caught and they both knew it.

"No wonder you're worried about them. That's a lot of secrets to be sitting on." Varric shook his head in wonder, his own shoulders tightening sympathetically at the thought of the knife edge she walked.

"And I suppose you'll threaten to tell them if I don't help you?" the Antivan rose, bringing the full strength of her height and regal bearing to the fore; it was her last defense.

"You kidding? Mae would rip my chest hairs out one at a time," Varric gave a melodramatic shudder, "No, I don't blackmail people. I bribe 'em. So if you help us, here's what we can do: once that record is out of the Archive it vanishes for good. The Crows never find out you were involved and no one's the wiser that your family screwed the nug a couple centuries ago. Gives you a slightly better chance of retiring in peace and not in a wooden box."

Lady de Vici's eyebrow gave a miniscule twitch. She turned to rest both hands on her desk, one spastic fingernail tapping an anxious rhythm of thought. Varric knew that posture, the burdens of decision weighing you down until you think you'll bend in half. He remained silent, letting her chase the options through the maze of her own mind because, ultimately, he knew there was only one way out.

The dwarf could tell she'd reached her conclusion when her back straightened, shoulders and head coming up into the proud bearing he'd seen all night. Her eyes were lost in the darkness beyond the windows and, though he couldn't see her, Varric was almost positive she was looking at Morrigan.

"Very well. I accept your offer on three conditions," the assassin turned, fingers pressed together like a steeple of schemes, "One: you do not reveal my secrets to anyone, anywhere, ever."

"On my ancestors' rocky balls." Varric nodded solemnly. It wouldn't be the first time he became the keeper of someone's darkest truths. At least with an assassin the skeletons would probably stay where they were buried.

"Two: the de Vici encryptions are our most private possession. I will not turn them over to you. Instead I will travel with you to the Divine and decipher the records in person." The glint in her lilac eyes hinted that there might be other reasons she wanted to leave Antiva. Prolonging her life span was undoubtedly high on the list.

"Easy enough, but you should know Zevran sings in his sleep. And I snore. What's the third?" Varric folded his arms, waiting for the inevitable deal breaking condition. Whatever it was, he knew he'd agree and just figure out a way to renegotiate later.

"Make sure I get some time alone with your witch. She's . . . different." De Vici turned to look out the windows once more, that serpentine twist of her lips edging into a smile.


	13. Act IV:i Dreaming

_Summer was a relative concept at Skyhold. It was mostly identified by the cessation of snow, if only for a handful days. The Inquisition kept fires banked year round at the mountain fortress, fighting off the bitter chill of the night even at the peak of Solace. Yet even when there was snow on the battlements and the fire barely sputtering life, Cassandra still slept naked._

_It took a while for Eve to discover the trait, seeing as the first month of nights they fell into bed together clothing had been scattered long before they reached a mattress. It was only as she coaxed the Seeker to sleep in her chambers regularly (truly sleep) that she realized the woman didn't even own a nightshirt. In camp she simply stripped her heavy armor before bedding down. Then, in the floors above the armory where the Seeker made her bunk, any extra layers of material just added to the suffocating heat._

_The Inquisitor had naturally been confused on those first few nights when she slid between the sheets expecting to fall asleep and found bare skin generously warming her space. The noble of Ostwick, who'd only had naked company in her bed for one purpose, tended to get presumptuous. It took half a dozen playful rebukes (and twice as many willing surrenders) before Trevelyan learned to read each night's potential. After that she merely had to fight the temptation in her arms, often going to sleep cursing the Maker for creating anyone so beautiful._

_On mornings like this, however, Inquisitor Trevelyan was all too happy to praise Andraste for the Nevarran's torturous habit. Cassandra had rolled halfway out of the sheets, instinct still unaccustomed to any material binding her, even dalish cotton. Eve stretched languorously before sliding across the sheets to draw close to the Seeker once more. Sunrise was fracturing through the windows, decorating the entire bed in arcs of light and illuminating sun tanned skin with tones of gold._

_Eve gently pressed a morning kiss to her lover's ear, watching for any hint of a stir. Another brush of lips against her cheek but the Seeker slept on. The Inquisitor knew she was grinning like Imshael himself, but it was a rare gift to wake before Cassandra. Propping her head in one hand she tugged the sheet further away, exploring the warrior's training-hardened and battle-sculpted form with her eyes first. Delicately, she reached out to trace the sinuous lines of muscle. Trevelyan's fingers charted the many scars that dotted the Seeker's skin, each a punctuation mark in the story of her life._ A maleficar, the band of thieves, two idiot Templars, rockslide, dragon claw _. Like the night's stars, Eve could recite their names and connect them into a dozen different constellations._

_Still traversing the skies of Cassandra's skin with her fingers, the Inquisitor leaned closer, inhaling the scent of her neck, tasting the warmth. The kiss caused a shift of the Seeker's shoulder, trying to escape the tickling sensation. Eve repeated the caress, this time longer and more deliberate. The Nevarran sighed in her sleep, gradually being lured away from her dreams._

_"_ _Whatever your Desire Demon is offering you, I'll double it," Eve murmured, catching the first hint of movement at the corner of the Seeker's lips. A kiss to the nascent smirk brought another sigh. Cassandra's fingers twitched, groping numbly at nothing. Trevelyan caught the hand that was searching for her, bringing it to rest against her shoulder. Enveloping the Nevarran's smooth cheek she planted a trail of kisses away from the edge of her mouth, lavishing attention on the scar that defined her every smile._

_The grip on her shoulder suddenly tightened and the Inquisitor hadn't even a second to react before Cassandra had flipped their positions, the spinning world full of her hazel eyes. The Nevarran went from dreams to battle ready in an instant, pinning Trevelyan to the mattress with no more than a twist. Eve's first instinct was to panic, wondering if she'd dragged Cassandra away from imaginary wars and needed to wake her to reality. Then she saw the line of her mouth soften, lips parting enough for a whisper of laughter._

_"_ _You are still scared of me?" The Seeker teased, loosening the iron grip that had held her lover captive._

_"_ _Maker's breath, Cassandra! When you have reflexes like that? Yes!" The Inquisitor took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart._

_"_ _I would never hurt you, my love," the brunette promised, tracing the line of worry between Eve's brows and brushing it away, "But you were too persistent to ignore."_

_"_ _You were awake?" The Inquisitor demanded in shock that turned quickly to accusation, "You let me think you were sleeping, you faker!"_

_"_ _You truly thought I would sleep through your attentions? I can feel you move even in my dreams." Cassandra's chiding tone was infinitely warmed by the sincerity of the confession, a touch of her lips clarifying anything that might have been missed. Trevelyan fell into the kiss, instinctively drawing closer to her Seeker._

_"_ _If you'd just woken up right away we could've gotten here a lot sooner," Eve complained, already impatient with this leisurely seduction. Cassandra could be insufferably languid in the mornings._

_"_ _That was the entire point." The Nevarran sounded like she was explaining basic chess strategy to a novice. She'd been toying with her! Trevelyan growled in the back of her throat and lunged to roll over, reversing their positions once more._

_"_ _If you want to play games, Seeker, let's play." The Inquisitor could feel the body beneath her flexing, testing her weight and grip. She tightened her hold but knew it wouldn't last long._

_"_ _The usual rules?" Cassandra's nearly clinical question purred with challenge, eyes growing deliciously darker._

_"_ _To start." Eve wet her lips, knowing she'd probably be scrapping the 'no teeth' rule today. No visible injuries would still be for the best; they had to meet ambassadors this afternoon._

_She braced herself but still couldn't hold her position against the sudden explosion of strength that tossed her sideways over the sheets. She met the other warrior halfway, both grappling across the bed and cursing the bedclothes that kept tangling. Blankets and pillows were scattered to the room as they wrestled for control. Laughter interspersed with threats and taunting as the usual game intensified._

_The noise of a foot kicking books off the end table distracted Cassandra for a split second, allowing Eve to press her advantage. Unfortunately, the Seeker was always ready for her impulsive attacks and she expertly used the Inquisitor's own momentum to throw her off the edge of the mattress._

_"_ _Ow." Eve hit the ground with a heavy thud, pain instantly shooting across her back._

_"_ _Are you alright?" Cassandra's face appeared above her, triumph only slightly interfering with the worry in her voice._

_"_ _New rule," Trevelyan announced, finger shooting into the air to protest a game foul, "All weapons to be taken off away from the bed!"_

_The Seeker gave a not completely unsympathetic laugh as she reached down to help Eve off the floor where she'd landed so painfully on her own sword pommel. The dull ache in her ribs promised to be sore for days. The Inquisitor reached for the assistance but found her arm couldn't move. The pain was spreading. It wasn't just under her shoulder anymore, it was radiating down her spine. Cassandra's smile began to waver, then vanish. Trevelyan's head was throbbing now and her whole body felt heavy and bruised. She couldn't move. Her muscles were stiff, joints locked, body raw like she'd spent the entire night on . . ._

. . .Cold rocks. Eve could feel the rough ground beneath her back. Her eyes wouldn't open but the colors in her lids told her the sun was up and she'd been in the same position for hours. Sleeping. That damn mage had tossed a sleep enchantment. As sensation flowed back into her body the Inquisitor could feel every tickling blade of grass and gouging piece of gravel against her skin. The first spastic twitch of her fingers brought a rush of relief and she fought her eyes open. The sun was painful, tears blurring the landscape but not twenty feet away she spied a familiar glint of armor. The heaviness had yet to leave her limbs and Eve could not yet force any sound from her paralyzed throat but she kept her eyes riveted on the fallen Seeker. Soon she'd be able to move. Soon they'd both get to their feet. They'd track down that stubborn bitch of a mage and drag her by her feet to Val Royeaux, preferably with ropes and blood. Soon.

* * *

"Think we lost them?" Hawke darted her eyes back to the road behind them, a churning cloud of dust obscuring the distance.

"I haven't felt the glancing blow of any arrows for several minutes," Aveline replied, touching the scratched metal of her shoulder guard. It would take hours to buff out that mark!

"Good," the Champion grinned and reined in her horse from the breakneck pace they'd been setting, "We're well away then."

"That lot was sad. Bollocks, really. What sort of criminal isn't expecting others to steal their shit? Probably couldn't hold their balls with both hands." Isabela sniffed, disdain lacing her professional judgement.

"Most thieves would go for the cases of lyrium they had stored on that wagon. Not the horses pulling the bloody thing," Elani pointed out. She glared at her mount, clearly calculating its worth versus the dozen plus crates of contraband they'd left behind. The line of her frown deepened as she got past the 100 sovereign mark.

"Let's worry about getting to Antiva City first. When you're done breaking into the Crows' Archives you can go do a bit of recreational looting." Hawke easily offered a compromise that would please any rogue but made the guard captain cringe. Aveline had stopped objecting out loud but the roll of her eyes could be louder than her tongue.

"It's been a few years since my last visit to Antiva City. I wonder if The Perfumed Spring is still in business? Cleanest hookahs in the country." Isabela's eyes took on the same dreamy, unfocused nostalgia as her tone.

"You mean for smoking or . . . something else?" Elani's question was asked with the misgiving of one who truly doesn't want to know the answer, but can't rest until they do.

"Both, Cuddles." The Rivaini's soft laughter was a thousand times more descriptive than words.

"Please don't call me that." The elf groaned, scowling at the nickname while an irritated blush crept up her cheeks.

"After what you did in the smugglers' camp? Be grateful I don't just dub you the killer squid! I've seen plenty of mates choked from behind but that extra bit you did with your legs? Positively lurid." The pirate brazenly clarified, swinging her hair over one shoulder to toss a wink at the thief.

"Hawke!" Elani appealed to the higher authority. She had instinctively cued into the hierarchy of power among the three friends. Aveline overruled crime, Isabela vetoed morality and the Champion rendered verdict on both.

"Not a chance, Cuddles," the Fereldan rogue laughed over her shoulder, "I was voting for the squid one."

"I still don't understand why we had to steal these. If we needed horses so badly we could've bought some in Ayesleigh! We passed stables in both directions." Aveline was still chafing over being lured into further criminal enterprise. She always told herself she wouldn't let Hawke make her compromise and yet every time – every single time! – the Champion found some way to make breaking laws seem like the only option. Like now.

"Lyrium traffickers always have the fastest horses. Have to, really, since their cargo brings both mages and Templars after them. Or whatever is left of the Templars. Must be a pretty desperate bunch these days," Hawke paused, thinking of the broken order with what was almost a measure of pity. It passed, "By taking their horses we actually did a service. Now they won't be able to get that lyrium smuggled out and it'll be easier for the local guards to catch up to them."

"Plus, we get to Antiva City before sundown instead of dragging in at midnight on some knackered mule." Elani patted the mane of the dappled charger she'd chosen.

"We could've just taken that ship." Isabela was undeniably pouting. She'd been drooling the moment they saw the clipper docked at Ayesleigh that would be taking Kont-aar's 'tea' out of the country. The pirate might generally prefer big boats but she could still appreciate something built for speed.

"Isabela, you would take a man's treasure, heart, cargo and whore. You would never steal his ship." Hawke didn't quite understand the sailor's code of honor but she knew that the captain's idea of fidelity began and ended at the helm.

"We could've won it. A duel? Or a game of Wicked Grace." The pirate knew her strengths.

"Both of which you'd win by cheating." Aveline knew Isabela's strengths too.

"You do say the sweetest things." The Rivaini cooed to her moral friend, a flirtation too mild to even earn an eye roll.

"There!" Elani rose part way out of her saddle to point down the road, "That pillar marks the beginning of Antivan territory. Pull aside."

Four horses were reined in beside the rocky column, three women looking on in confusion as the fourth scrambled off her mount and climbed the marker. Elani faced the eastern horizon, peaceful forest and open plains spilling toward a placid coast.

"Hey! All you blighters! Learn what proper coin is and get some shit worth stealing!" The elf shouted so loud her face turned red, jerking her forearm to the innocent landscape. She tossed every rude gesture Hawke had ever seen and several more she didn't know before spinning around, dropping her breeches and bending over for good measure.

"I'm sorry," Hawke knew her mouth was hanging open, though not as wide as Aveline's, "Did you just moon an entire country?"

Elani didn't reply at once, just did her pants back up and flipped to the ground with an air of satisfaction.

"They piss all over it themselves. Best I could think of," She admitted, climbing back onto her horse with a final glare behind herself, "I hated this sodding place."

"Oh, Hawke, she's darling! Tell me we can keep her, please?" Isabela begged, her delight laughing around them all. Elani blushed at the generous approval, a pleased smile brightening her face. She sat taller in the saddle now. Some invisible burden had lifted, leaving only an easy confidence behind.

Hawke was so busy watching Isabela's beautiful laughter and Elani's subtle pride that she never noticed the raven circling high above. The dark scavenger wheeled a few more times overhead before turning to catch the winds south once more.

* * *

 

* * *

_Everyone knew that when the Inquisitor was missing she was in one of three places. She was either in the library with Dorian, sparring with Cassandra or allowing herself to be completely corrupted by her association. The Seeker hadn't seen their leader for hours and had already checked the library, which left only the final option: the Herald's Rest. The remaining mystery was simply a question of which companion was helping destroy her reputation._

_"_ _Anaan!"_ _The roar of approval accompanied the sound of empty mugs slamming down on wood. Cassandra winced at the noise as she walked into the tavern. She'd had a feeling Bull would be involved._

_"_ _Come on, Shiny, you're getting slow! Bits up!" The goading laughter sounded like babbling water, perfectly matched to the splashing of more liquid into mugs (and over a good portion of the table). Sera never passed up a chance to drink on someone else's coin. She was also constantly trying to get the Inquisitor drunk in the hopes of loosening her tongue. The rapaciously lurid elf (two words she'd happily apply to herself if she knew either) was always looking for new material. Fortunately, Trevelyan's dissolute youth of indulgence had left her with an iron constitution surpassed only by Iron Bull himself. And possibly Leliana, if the rumors were to be believed._

_"_ _Right! Where were we?" Varric wasn't always part of the drinking crew but when he was it was far more worrisome._

_Iron Bull was a straight-forward, smash things and kill people sort of warrior. His life as a Ben-Hassrath might have meant he could lie but the very fact that the Qunari_ _needed_ _designated liars pretty much explained the race's limited skills for deception. He was the only person worse at Wicked Grace than Cassandra herself. Bluffing wasn't something an 8' warrior that looked part dragon ever needed to learn. She'd always trust him to keep the Inquisitor safe._

_Sera was impulsive and quick. She delighted in nothing so much as running circles around everyone that crossed her path until they were so dizzy they kicked themselves in the ass. But she also had an extremely short attention span and was completely insane. Other than a vulgar imagination and explicit vocabulary, she never bothered Cassandra. In fact, the Seeker occasionally felt an odd protective impulse around the archer. There was something about her angry yet devoted faith towards Andraste that made her endearing. And blasphemous. But mostly endearing. She didn't bother bringing out the best in people, she just brought out what they were._

_Varric though . . . The dwarf was so twisty he could hide behind a spiral staircase. Whenever he drank with the Inquisitor Cassandra felt a twinge of concern. She knew the writer would never hurt the Inquisitor, or even deceive her (the way he did the Seeker) but she couldn't shake the feeling that he was silently gathering material. Be it weeks, months or even years, she just knew there would be a_ _Tale of the Inquisition_ _available for purchase. And, knowing the damnably stubborn and thorough narrator, he'd include_ all _the facts. Cassandra preferred her life off the record._

_Seeker Pentaghast stepped to the far end of the staircase, able to observe the table of drinkers without being spotted. As she'd surmised, Eve was ensconced with Bull, Sera, Varric, Krem and Flissa. The latter two were clearly present just to keep the tavern from getting destroyed._

_"_ _The titles. I still favor Dragonsbane." Iron Bull growled more when he was drinking._

_"_ _It's flashy, sure, but still a mouthful, right? You want a title for a hero it's got to be easy to remember and quick to say," Sera argued back, "I mean, look at Inky here. 'Lady Inquisitor Trevelyan, Herald of Andraste.' What kind of boring is all those words? And it'd be a job to shout in bed."_

_"_ _Sera . . ." The Inquisitor's weary laugh had just a hint of warning. Far too subtle for the giggling elf to notice._

_"_ _Seriously! It'd be hard enough for anyone to get that out in one go, never mind if a Seeker's trying to catch her breath." The rogue continued stubbornly, suddenly consumed in the logic of her own argument._

_"_ _I had thought of including a love scene. For the die-hard romantics." Varric hummed thoughtfully, swirling his mug of liquor before taking a long drink._

_"_ _Not that you've got it easy either, Buckles," Sera had a never ending supply of nicknames for the Inquisitor, "I like the whole Right Hand part but 'Lady Seeker Pentaghast' ain't going to be fun to try and say. Not if she's actually doing things right below."_

_"_ _They do have names." Iron Bull offered the only logical statement in the entire conversation._

_"_ _Hardly ever hear 'em used though. It's always 'Inquisitor this' and 'Seeker that.' Not exactly going to get anyone steamy, is it?" Sera mocked both warriors' voices, getting Cassandra's Nevarran accent frighteningly close, "And they aren't the sort for pet names, neither. Can you see Miss Fist putting up with some rubbish like Love Bunny?"_

_"_ _Maybe if there were more fangs? Is there a man eating kind of bunny?" Varric wondered._

_"_ _I really don't want -." Trevelyan tried to interrupt the conversation but was shouted down by the others. She covered her discomfort with another long drink._

_"_ _Come on, then. You got us all wondering now," the elf demanded, topping the Inquisitor's mug._

_"_ _I didn't bring any of this up!" Trevelyan was still sober and highly aware that the conversation could get her killed if it ever reached other ears. Other Nevarran ears. Cassandra smiled in the shadows, knowing the woman would die before surrendering their privacy. She really needn't have been worried._

_"_ _But you still gotta say. What's it you call her? I mean, all alone and no more armor or weapons; unless that happened to be your thing for the night. What comes out when she's blown your mind so bad there's no words left?" Sera absolutely refused to let the matter go, she'd wrapped an arm around Eve's shoulders and would probably crawl into her ear if she didn't get an answer._

_"_ _I believe if she's been rendered that incoherent, there wouldn't be anything said at all." The Seeker emerged from behind the pillar of the stairs, fighting her own smirk of pleasure at seeing the entire table jump. Trevelyan looked up at her with an immediate swell of both guilt and relief. Apparently, Cassandra's intrepid leader needed a bit of rescuing._

_"_ _Seeker! Good you're here," Sera truly did sound delighted, releasing her hold on Eve to lean across the table, "You can settle all this up for once, then! When it's just the two of you which name does she use? I mean, all that rant of titles from the Winter Palace is out the window. When Inky's good and wound up, what's she go hoarse shouting?"_

_"_ _If I recall, the last name the Inquisitor shouted in private was Josephine's," Cassandra took a moment to enjoy the silent shock that rolled across her audience before she explained, "A bottle of wine had been knocked over on a stack of Ambassador Montilyet's reports and it was quite urgent they not be ruined."_

_"_ _There's your answer, Sera. Now, I think I'm probably needed for some remote emergency." Eve quickly got to her feet, nodding farewells to her drinking partners and gratefully heading for the exit before anyone could protest. The Seeker cast a final glace over the table, the faintest tilt of an eyebrow matching the corner of her smile. By the time she reached the doorway she could already hear Sera and Varric falling back into a squabble of double entendre._

_"_ _Thanks." The Inquisitor smiled as soon as Cassandra joined her outside. They set across the courtyard at an easy pace._

_"_ _You looked uncomfortable." The Seeker shrugged. She knew Trevelyan could've extricated herself from the conversation by some clever twist of words but the evasion would be obvious and only lead to further future taunting. Only when Cassandra cut into such a discussion, words like the edge of a great-axe, did the subject truly get dropped._

_"_ _And thank you for not mentioning_ how _that bottle of wine got knocked over." Eve stepped closer, ensuring she could be heard despite her low tone. The rich note of thoughts from the night before laced every word._

_"_ _It didn't seem relevant to the conversation." The Seeker kept her voice as straight as steel but she could feel the shudder of memory threatening to break loose. Resisting the Inquisitor's temptations was almost as heady as surrender._

_"_ _Besides," Trevelyan's voice dropped to a whisper, "We both know what I really shout."_

_This time the memory shook Cassandra's breath. There were no titles or nicknames when they were alone. There was only one name that could fall from the Inquisitor's lips with so many different shades of meaning. She savored them all._

_"_ _Cassandra!" There could be a laugh of surprise when the Seeker suddenly pulled Eve into the privacy of shadows for a stolen moment. As she did now._

_"_ _Again." The Seeker's mouth was tantalizingly close, coaxing the name from her lover once more._

_"_ _Cassandra." A prayer of longing, eyes and lips both begging before being consumed by the inevitable kiss. The hidden embrace was a lingering exchange of unspoken confessions, both warriors pouring meaning without words into each touch._

_"_ _Cassandra." Barely a whisper, the only sound she could manage when emotion threatened to silence her completely._

"Cassandra!" The tone of worry masked under command. Seeker Pentaghast jerked beneath hands shaking her awake. The Nevarran warrior caught the other woman's arms, a moment of panic flooding her with enough adrenaline to completely break the remnants of enchantment. She bolted upright, world spinning with the sudden movement. The bright blue sky swam with the forest and road, everything becoming one for a few seconds before she could force them all back in place.

"Easy, the rune was strong. I think we were out for 12 hours, maybe more." The Inquisitor hadn't let go of Cassandra, steadying her as the dizziness gradually faded. The sky and ground returned to their respective positions and still the tight grip on her waist and shoulder remained. Trevelyan held her, concern lining the usually unmarred face. The Seeker allowed herself the momentary indulgence of leaning against the other woman. Not because she was a warrior or the Inquisitor or even a friend, but because she made Cassandra feel safe. Safe enough to be weak, if only for a second.

"The mage?" The Seeker's mouth felt like she'd spent the night sucking on dirty metal.

"All three horses went different directions but her trail leads straight south." Eve pulled the stopper from a flask of water and handed it over. Cassandra happily drank, rinsed and spat until her tongue and lips felt normal once more. She wiped her mouth, noting the dried blood. She'd bitten her own lip during the spell sleep, probably her training fighting to break free of magic.

"She'll be heading as far in the opposite direction of Val Royeaux as she can get. That direction offers only one possible refuge for hiding." The Nevarran gazed to the distant horizon, well aware of the dangers that lay beyond.

"The Arbor Wilds," Trevelyan agreed, her scowl confessing how much she'd rather simply let the mage die in the uncharted wilderness.

"We can likely catch her on the outskirts." Cassandra was far too vengeful to let the woman escape, even in death.

Eventually the two warriors would have to ponder why Solace was so determined to run. The coming journey would give them time to think about and discuss the possible fears that were driving the mage to such desperate measures. For now, however, they had a single shared thought: get the cursed woman back. Preferably, before she became one more nameless skeleton in the ruins of the Dalish. Then they'd get revenge on both her _and_ Leliana.

"Right. Let's see if Dennet is worth what the Inquisition's paying?" Eve surveyed the road in either direction and then let out an ear-piercing whistle. For well over a minute all Cassandra could hear was ringing pain caused by the high-pitched noise. Then her feet picked up a vibration in the distance. Turning in the direction of the sound she spied a cloud of dust that gave way to two barded chargers racing towards them. A second staccato whistle stopped the horses within a few feet of their riders, armor jangling at the halt.

"I think we should give the horsemaster a rise." The Seeker smiled, reaching out to rub the nose of her obedient mount.

"I think we'll give him a dozen more horses to train." Eve grinned and climbed into her saddle. Solace had escaped on horseback but it wasn't one of these. Overtaking her wouldn't be a problem. Catching her before she reached the Wilds? That would be by the Maker's grace.

* * *

Morrigan swooped off the swift wind that had born her back to Antiva City. She'd been concerned that scouring the borders for their other companions might take too long but the Champion and her associates made a spectacle of themselves from quite a distance. Judging by the speed of their progress and their own conversations, it wouldn't be long before the next phase of Leliana's mission could proceed. The witch hoped this thief was everything she was purported to be. Lingering in Antiva, so far from her work - her _son_ -was not an option she'd tolerate.

Familiar vine wrapped walls drew her to the window she'd left open before departing. Varric and Zevran were both rogues, guaranteed to sleep past noon, especially after their previous night. Morrigan had been sure she wouldn't be missed if she slipped out for a few hours in a more travel worthy form. She'd easily have an hour or more to rest and recover from the shapeshifting. It was always harder the longer she was in another form. She'd once flown for two full days as a raven; for hours after she craved mice. This night's short journey should not have such effects. Still, she was grateful as she alighted on her windowsill, mind full of ideas about mattresses and sleep rather than nests and lizards.

The first hint of movement inside her room brought a startled caw from Morrigan's throat, the stiffness of a beak ill-fitted for cursing. The figure that had been rummaging near the corner table spun, bright metal glinting instantly in a fist. The witch flapped her wings, the instinct of a raven's mind warring her own.

"Ah, sorry, pretty bird. I would never hurt a comrade." The curled Antivan accent flowed out of the shadow of a heavy cowl. The dagger disappeared but still the scavenger held its defense. As if sensing the raven's suspicion, the strange visitor pushed back her grey hood. The familiar features should have only intensified Morrigan's distrust but she also felt a tickling curiosity in the back of her mind. What was de Vici doing in her room?

"You will not give me away, I trust?" The assassin smiled at her, ignorant of the intense golden eyes glaring back, "Not that there is much to expose. Sadly. There might be delicious secrets to share in the future but for now? This lady is a riddle."

Morrigan hopped from one side to the other on the windowsill. She wanted to return to her true form. She was tired and strained to focus her human mind through the chaotic instincts of a scavenging bird. If it were a servant or thief she might not have cared, she'd have simply transformed on the spot and enjoyed the helpless fright and panic that ensued. For some reason she didn't want to reveal herself to the Antivan woman. She wanted to know why the assassin was here. That desire drowned out any other. She squawked again, impatiently demanding answers.

"It is my trade to enter and escape unnoticed but you," de Vici pointed an accusing finger toward Morrigan's raven form, smile playful if still vaguely dangerous, "You caught me. Well done. I will surrender and depart. Let me only finish one thing?"

So saying, de Vici placed a folded paper on the table. Even from the window Morrigan could make out the colorful stamp of a wax seal. What letter would the assassin be leaving her? Information on the Crows and their Archive? Instructions for the coming tasks? A threat regarding their future business dealings together?

The Antivan noble paused, her fingers barely gracing the edge of the paper. For only a moment, Morrigan could study the woman. Dark locks spilling around her face and shoulders softened an otherwise patrician bearing so hard it might've been carved in marble like the statues at the palace. Her clothing was the expensive silks of aristocrats but far more simple and muted than the usual Antivan fashion. In case the subtle camouflage of her subdued garb wasn't enough, the gray shawl around her shoulders promised total anonymity in a moment.

Then Morrigan found she was suddenly observing from much closer than she would have liked. De Vici had crossed the room and stopped before the window, bending down to be almost eye to eye with the raven. Eyes the color of nightshade met her own unblinking gold, the witch refusing to back down or blink. She didn't know. She couldn't. No one recognized her when she shifted, not even Kieran. De Vici lifting a hand almost made her flinch but she stubbornly held her ground.

"Aren't you extraordinary? So striking," De Vici muttered, fingers hovering just beyond her feathers, resisting the impulse to touch, "Be careful, my dark beauty. In this country blackbirds walk a double edged sword. Revered by killers, hated by innocents. You are not safe until you fly away."

The resignation of her smile was testimony to a life surrendered years before. Then she was gone. The raven blinked, surprised by the confession and then sudden emptiness of her room.

Morrigan landed on the floor and transformed from feathers to flesh with the sigh of a woman freed from her corset. She stretched for a long, indulgent minute, simply savoring the feel and reach of her limbs. Each form had its own advantage but only in her own skin could she relax. No more primal brain fighting for control. No more predators in the shadows. _Not the obvious sort, anyway._ The witch's eyes wandered to the letter on her table. Carefully cracking the seal she unfolded the page to find a few lines of neat script within. Not elaborate or effusive, simply what needed to be said.

_Lady Morrigan,_

_I must apologize for my behavior last night. It will not happen again._

_I look forward to working alongside you and trust that this endeavor will afford us time to become better acquainted. On that note: your garrulous friend has a task for us today. You will find me awaiting your company downstairs._

_Anticipating your pleasure,_

_Ravenel de Vici_

Morrigan set the letter back on the table. She was tempted to pick it up and read once more, confused and impressed by the tone of the message. No groveling explanations or angry justifications. Not a whiff of accusation or manipulation. The economical words conveyed only the facts that were needed and a trace of the woman behind them. When so many people could be tedious, deceptive and complex to the point of exhaustion, it was ironic that an assassin had mastered clarity.

_Ravenel. No wonder she likes black birds._

Morrigan started to turn away but at the last minute she gathered up the letter and placed it in her bag. It was only so she had proof of the apology if they broke into a fight again. She was absolutely convinced that she and the Antivan weren't done with their hostilities. But, as she laid down for a few minutes' rest before beginning the next adventure, she couldn't help wondering why she so eagerly looked forward to their next fight.


	14. Act IV:ii Intrigue

No one believes in the Maker faster than an elf born in Tevinter. Mainly because they needed to have someone to curse once they realized their fate. Born to be nothing but property they were the lowest even in the ranks of slavery. They were bred like livestock, abused for pleasure, given as gifts or sacrificed in blood rituals. Their highest aspiration was to be liberated, which in Tevinter meant only the opportunity to be poor and fall back into slavery again. Realistically, any elf slave kept their head down and just prayed they wouldn't be sold to a blood mage or soldier. Being invisible was their best chance to survive.

Elani sucked at being invisible. From the time she could speak, she argued. With her mother, her fellow slaves, her superiors; even the owner himself. Her mouth got her into trouble a thousand times but it was her hands that got her punished. Stealing table scraps was expected and broken baubles tolerated, the occasional coin was dangerous but a weapon unforgivable. The Imperium had grown rather paranoid, as could happen when elf slaves kept converting to the Qun to become sleeper agents. In such an air of constant suspicion, revealing a stolen knife up your sleeve was begging for death.

That the weapon was only exposed because one of the bigger slaves was getting a bit too friendly helped convince their owner that Elani wasn't actually a Qunari assassin. That she'd stolen the dagger months before got her put up for sale. The fact that she successfully sliced open her attacker's face got her purchased by an army general. He seemed to think she might survive longer on the front lines than his last few.

Elani cursed the Maker with every blasphemy she could invent until she found out the other slave was sold to a maleficar. Life in Seheron sounded a shit load better than death by sacrifice. Getting out of Tevinter was every elf's dream. The war zone wasn't much of an escape but it was a first step. Within a month of setting foot on the disputed island, she vanished in a market attack and made her way to the Qunari. It was then that she began to learn how to be invisible.

"They trained you to be an Infiltrator? Just like that? " Hawke marveled, both at the elf's story and the Qunari's obvious mistake.

"I had to prove myself a few times," Elani shrugged, dozens of crimes resting on that simple shoulder twitch, "And the training took years in Par Vollen. It was months before I understood that everyone yelling Bas was talking to me. I kept forgetting the whole no names thing. You know I met a guy they called Eva? He was promoted through three different names while we were sleeping together. Got a bit confusing. He died just after they made him Taarlok."

The elf felt a familiar pang of sadness. Eva – as she would always think of him, because it was sodding hilarious – had been fun to spend time with. Great for blowing off a bit of steam. It hadn't taken long for Elani to notice the one gaping hole in Qunari society's infrastructure. There were Tamassrans for popping any random man's cork but a glaring absence of men around to supply similar services. Once she had free run of Qunandar she'd tried the Tamassran option but found they were a little, well, lacking. Took the job waaaaaay too seriously. Cross species breeding wasn't allowed. Nor, for that matter, was _any_ unauthorized breeding and it took all of Elani's argumentative skills to convince her teachers that breeding wasn't the actual goal. Eventually, she won. They introduced her to Eva, a recent convert from the Imperium like herself. The fact that he was human _and_ a magister made the irony too delicious to pass up. Damn Seheron. Damn the fog warriors. Damn Eva for actually thinking any of it was worth dying for.

"So when did you decide to betray the Qunari put all that training to more profitable use?" Hawke broke Elani's silent fuming. The Champion watched her closely for this answer. It was the most important question they could ask. It would tell them everything they truly needed to know about the thief.

"From the day I walked into my first reeducation center and asked to learn the Qun." Elani's eyes glittered with malicious pride. It hadn't matter what they wanted her to learn, she'd play along until the time was right. That they taught her all the tricks she'd eventually use against them just made it easier to wait. Shok ebasit hissra. Struggle is an illusion. The Qun was just another master, the greediest of all since it tried to make slaves of everyone.

"No wonder they hunted your sweet ass across Rivain," Isabela laughed. She had more than enough experience to know how dogged the Ox-men could be when they were on your trail. She'd stolen a piece of their heritage and had to hide for six years. This thief took their secrets before running away.

"I never should've gone to that Maker-forsaken country. I was just trying to get through to Antiva." Elani scowled at the mistake that had landed her in reeducation once more. This time with far less benevolent 'instructors.'

"You're here now. Look around. Might be the last time you're safe in this kingdom." Hawke gestured at the scenic hills receding into the distance.

"She's right. Even if you do the job successfully it is likely to make you a target. Antiva is not a safe place for any enemy of the Crows. Ever." Aveline agreed with the Champion, eyes briefly darting toward Isabela.

"Aw, worrying about me, big girl? Don't fret," the pirate clucked her tongue, "There isn't a place in all Thedas safe from the Crows. The trick is to be very difficult to kill."

"So, Tevinter, Par Vollen, Rivain and by tomorrow: Antiva. I really hope Orlais is nice because I'm running out of places I can take a vacation," Elani sighed. In slavery she'd dreamed of seeing the world, she just hadn't expected to have to travel so much of it at once.

"Not necessarily. How do you feel about the ocean?" Hawke's glance darted to Isabela as she asked the question, catching a spark of wicked delight in the captain's eyes.

* * *

Morrigan didn't expect Lady de Vici to truly be waiting for her when she finally came downstairs. A few minutes of rest had turned into several hours. The long raven flight after so adventurous an evening had tired her more than she thought. Yet, when she entered the large common space that was both parlor and tavern, her eyes almost immediately fell on a familiar figure reclining by the window. The woman was gazing out to the activity of the street as if watching the performance of a theatre troupe, noting every nuance and detail. Occasionally she lifted a miniature cup to sip the black tar that passed for coffee in these parts.

"You needn't have waited." Morrigan approached the table and skipped formalities.

"I knew you would eventually appear. Besides," the noble smiled in greeting, a lingering gaze sweeping from head to toe, "You are more than worth the time."

"What is it Varric wants us to do?" The witch concentrated on ignoring the blatant flattery. Antivans were known for being aggressively charming. Why the woman insisted on directing such attentions at her was beyond Morrigan's comprehension. Either she was being painfully obvious about an impulsive desire or amusing herself with the mage's discomfort. In either case, Morrigan found it juvenile and irritating. She didn't like things she couldn't ignore. She hated anything she couldn't explain.

"Careful with our diminutive friend's name, my dear. Even in whispers it can still reach the wrong ears. Come, I'm sure you will find our assignment most enlightening." The raven haired assassin tossed a few coppers on the table and rose to leave. Morrigan felt a flash of anger at being ordered so casually, left ignorant like some servant. Her hands were clenching tight, preparing for violence she couldn't even identify.

"Lady de-," The witch started to object but was swiftly cut off.

"Ravenel," the Antivan corrected, playful challenge wrapped around the name but then her teasing suddenly disappeared, "Your hand, you didn't heal it?"

The woman had stepped into Morrigan's personal space to fluster the apostate but her brow furrowed when she saw the forming fists. The white cloth wrapped around one palm captured her complete attention and she instinctively reached for it. A killer needs faster reflexes than a mage and before Morrigan could retreat, her injured hand was held carefully in both of de Vici's.

"Medicine and a bandage. Not everything requires magic." The witch of the wilds briskly dismissed any concern. She'd suffered far worse injuries a hundred times over. A scratch from a blade was hardly going to warrant the use of her extensive skills. The pained regret in Ravenel's face was almost as uncomfortable as the way she cradled the wounded fist.

"Even if you aren't vain enough to be worried about scars, you should've known no assassin uses a blade without poison," the Antivan woman sighed with patient irritation, removing the bandage to inspect the damage beneath, "You are tired, yes? My daggers are always tipped with fatigue."

"I don't usually try to think like an assassin," Morrigan shot back, annoyed to be receiving both criticism and concern. Ravenel's brow arched briefly, promising the scorn had hit its mark, but she didn't answer. A small bottle appeared from beneath her cloak and she sprinkled a few drops onto the cut flesh.

"An anitdote. Your energy should return shortly," the bottle disappeared and then the wound was being gently re-wrapped, "You were foolish to be off running errands rather than resting. Most people would have already succumbed to dreams for a full day."

"I am not like most people." The witch of the wilds could feel heat under the bandage, tingling warmth feeding into her blood. Whatever the assassin had used was clearly quick and potent and entirely responsible for any pleasant sensations, not the touch of fingers stroking the back of her hand.

"No, you're definitely not." Ravenel chuckled, a hint of smile promising that she was pleased to agree.

"Shall we continue?" Morrigan pulled her hand free, heading towards the door. She wasn't sure why but her pride was stinging. She felt she'd lost a battle and couldn't for the life of her figure out what the fight was even about.

Outside the inn stood a sleek black carriage. Heavy curtains shrouded the interior; the entire design reminiscent of some opulent king's hearse. It was the same coach de Vici had used to intercept them the night before, impressive under the dark sky but rather ridiculous in the light of day.

"There are some trappings simply expected of an assassin," Ravenel easily read Morrigan's distaste as she opened the door, "People get terribly confused when known killers ride around in bright green."

"Then why am I now certain you have another carriage in exactly that color?" The witch climbed inside the coach, engulfed immediately in darkness and velvet.

"Because you are most perceptive, dear lady. Though I was thinking of trading it in for yellow." De Vici's smile gleamed bright in the shadows, wider at hearing the Fereldan laugh. A tap of her fingers against the cab wall set them in motion. Morrigan watched out the window for several minutes as the city began to roll by at a stately canter.

"Am I allowed to know our destination?" The apostate finally turned her gaze back to her escort. The woman seemed to grapple with the candid question.

"Lady Morrigan, when you look at me like that I could swear you see through me," Ravenel fidgeted, uncomfortable but unwilling to look away, "Allow me this piece of mystery?"

De Vici had clearly proven she could be deceptive and evasive when necessary. Yet, the witch couldn't find a trace of either in her response. She was more like an excited child trying to keep a secret. _Like Kieran_. The realization tore at Morrigan's thoughts, instantly aware of the distance separating her from her son. Kieran loved trying to surprise his mother. It never mattered that she could clearly see the mystery gift poking out of his pocket or behind his back or chewing on a rug (in the case of a Fennec pup), it had been his own enthusiasm that made any revelation wonderful. Ravenel had the same nervous delight glittering in her eyes that Morrigan had seen dozens of times before. She could never destroy it in her child. Oddly, she also found she didn't want to harm it now.

"Very well." The witch turned back to watching the scenery. That way she didn't have to see the sincere pleasure of the other woman's smile. Or think about why it made her glad.

* * *

_"_ _The first of the Maker's children watched across the_ _Veil_ _  
And grew jealous of the life"_

Solona's eyes wandered the Divine's throne room with the methodical sweep that had grown habitual. From her position towards the back she could easily see most of the audience as well as the movement of any servants. The location was no accident; over the past few days several of Leliana's spies had reported suspicious activity. Only the powerful of Thedas and superiors of the Chantry were allowed in the throne room for the Chant of Light but the courtyard below swarmed with thousands of faithful. At least one or two of whom were guaranteed to have their own ideas of what being 'faithful' meant. Solona had developed a custom of checking the room every few minutes, watching for any hint of martyrdom or murder. Safe so far.

_"_ _They could not feel, could not touch._

_In blackest envy were the_ _demons_ _born."_

The Canticle of Erudition was always difficult for the Hero to sit through. Not just because it was long and full of biased doctrine but because Solona felt it was an oversimplification. Demons were spirits corrupted by mortal minds. True, they thrived on the darkest of emotions but those could be, oh so powerful. When men themselves were too weak to resist such feelings, how could spirits?

Even now, looking around this room full of nobles and worshipers she could see subtle vices beneath each face of devotion. Envy and Fear in the glares of clerics and Mothers; all jockeying with each other for position in the ranks of the Chantry, stepping on others and only stopping to complain if they were squashed. Pride in the boredom of the nobles, lost in thoughts of their own power and no concern for the Maker. Sloth weighted many weary eyes. Most of all she saw people's expressions twisted with Hungers; some literal but most abstract. Hunger wasn't so clever as Desire but it was more desperate, more pervasive. Hunger was based on need. Everyone in this room had needs.

_Everyone._ Solona let her eyes track to Leliana, a wash of conflicting demands tightening her chest. _Keep her safe, keep her close, keep your distance. So beautiful. So powerful, so vulnerable. Protect her reputation, her position, her person. Die for her, live for her, love her; dear Maker, no matter what, love her._ The Hero stared so hard at the woman it was a miracle she didn't catch fire. This new and bizarre twist of the Maker's plans for them took more of her self-discipline than any other before. Become a warden, slay an archdemon, save Ferelden, rebuild the wardens – none of those tasks felt as daunting as this. Probably because she still wasn't even sure what _this_ was. What in the great Golden City was she supposed to be doing here?

A glint of light caught Solona's eye and for a moment she thought divine guidance was about to appear to settle all these tumultuous misgivings. (Days of listening to the Chant of Light can give you some inflated expectations). Turning to catch the twinkling brightness the Warden felt her heart sink. Not just because it wasn't a vision from the Maker to clarify her life. It was metal. The sun caught and flickered off a piece of metal in the upper gallery of the east wing. A position that provided a clear view directly into the throne room of the Divine. Perfectly unobstructed.

_Crossbow._ Solona was on her feet and moving as quickly as possible out of the chamber without causing alarm. Once she was through the doors she burst into a dead run, cold sweat already prickling her neck. Even as she raced through the corridors, terrifying the servants that dove out of her path, she tried to convince herself it was nothing. Leliana had spies and scouts scattered throughout the Grand Cathedral. Many nobles had guards specifically hidden among the crowds to keep them safe. For that matter, an assassin could just as easily be aiming for Empress Celene or King Pentaghast or anyone of a dozen other aristocrats all equally exposed. The Warden's pounding heart didn't care.

She broke onto the airy promenade and quickly spotted the irregular shadow hidden behind a column. She stopped and slid out of view, catching her breath. From there the shooter could see all of the throne room as well as the courtyard below. Which meant he could be seen and so could she. Using magic would cause a panic. The Chantry/Mage relations were already tenuous as thread; any spells unleashed during the enthronement would send Thedas into chaos once more. No fire or ice or quaking. Without magic she'd have to rely on her second best weapon.

"Quite a view, right?" she announced herself, stepping out of shadows and diving to the side as an arrow shot overhead. The archer had swung around, bow pointed straight at her but with the tiny wavers that told her his hands were shaking. He wasn't wearing armor or even a disguise. Maker, he looked like he'd come straight from the fields.

"Farm boy, right?" Solona held her hands up in surrender, trying to keep him calm, "I don't think you really want to be doing this."

"Someone has to!" The would-be assassin sounded like he'd repeated the words to himself a thousand times. He was probably up all night before just reciting that mantra.

"Okay, I'm not here to hurt you, see? Just talk a bit. Maybe find out what's got you all up in arrows?" The Hero backed away, ascribing a slow and careful arc. The bow stayed pointing at her, the boy shuffling anxiously to keep her in his sights.

"She can't be the true Divine! She's going to Unify! Mages in the Chantry after what they've done? My brother was a Templar, they killed him. My farm was burned to the ground!" His voice wavered like his aim, shaking with emotion.

It was Leliana he'd been aiming for after all. Warden Amell's soothing smile began turning to stone. He was obviously too incompetent to hit the Divine at this distance but he could kill any one of a hundred other innocents trying. He wanted to hurt her Nightingale. The Hero felt conviction settle like placid water over the chaos of her mind. This was why she was in Val Royeaux; this was why she would always be at Leliana's side. Be it the Maker's will or not, she was here to keep her safe.

"She's blaspheming the Chant, betraying the Maker! Her and that mage whore of hers!" The fanatic was clearly excited to have an audience for his many grievances. That last one was a bit new.

"Mage?" She knew for a fact that the rumors about Divine Victoria's company were very carefully monitored. Not only did no one suspect her of having a lover, she was personally well aware that Most Holy's vows had been flawlessly kept. Once they'd been made, anyway.

"That accursed apostate!" his hands shook harder, "It isn't enough she's turned the Empress against us but now she's seducing a Divine?! The Maker will rain judgment on them all!"

"Oh, that mage!" Solona knew laughing was probably not the best reaction but she couldn't resist. They thought Morrigan was corrupting Leliana? What a mental image that was! She could hardly wait to see their faces when they found out.

The Hero finally stopped moving. Having carefully walked the assassin in a half circle he now had his back to the railing, completely turned away from the courtyard and anything beyond. No one else could get hurt. Now she just had to find a way to disarm him. Fortunately he was too lost in his own hateful rhetoric to notice her distraction.

"They all are spitting on the Ashes of Andraste! Magic is to serve man! She's going to turn us into the Imperium, making slaves and sacrifices of -!" The rant came to an abrupt halt with a heavy thud. The archer's head snapped back before he crumpled forward, arrow discharging harmlessly into the ground.

"Do all fanatics memorize the same tired speeches? Doesn't seem to matter if they're protesting Divines, Kings or the price of root vegetables. Blah blah the corruption of principle this, the breakdown of society that." The King of Ferelden grinned as he stepped over the fallen body, flexing his gloves.

"Throw in a reference to Tevinter and everyone starts grabbing whatever's sharp," Solona agreed, smiling at her friend and former adventuring partner, "Nice of you to join me, Alistair."

"I couldn't let you have all the fun. You get so greedy about it." He crouched beside the unconscious dissident, joined immediately by Amell as they began to search for clues. She found what she wanted in a pouch around his neck. The weathered scrap of paper had been folded and refolded, handled dozens of times until the edges curled. The ink was smeared from being close to body heat but the Hero could make out the titles of the Canticles. The order of the Chant written in columns. Alongside was a list of names. He wasn't working alone.

"Here: Erudition and Gawyn. He's the first of half a dozen who're down here. All assigned to different parts of the song." She tapped the first name, identifying their failed extremist.

"Solona, some of these Canticles go on for better than three days. How are we supposed to know when they're going to strike?" Alistair's groan promised he had many objections to the length of the Chant and not just because of assassination timing.

"Let's get him to Leliana's people. If he has any other information they'll get it out of him. After that?" The Hero got to her feet and gazed to the distant throne room. Did she see a flicker of Leliana's glance searching for her? The Nightingale never missed a thing, "We're going to need more eyes."

"Well, there's me of course. So long as Anora hasn't gouged mine out," Alistair grabbed a leg of the limp body and began to drag it as they strolled away, "And I imagine we must have a few friends lurking about for the festivities?"

"More enemies and they aren't quite so cooperative," The Warden confessed, "Leliana's friend Josephine brought several of the Inquisition. She and the Commander are certainly trustworthy."

"The Empress has Briala in the throne room; we can make use of her. And I believe Ser Michel is in attendance as well." The King added to their list, both of them ignoring the noise of Gawyn's unconscious head thumping down the stairs as they walked.

"As are Mother Giselle and Prince Sebastian," Solona nodded, growing more comfortable with every familiar and trusted name, "Those two will die to protect the Chantry. I'm pretty sure they'd kill for it too."

"I'd say that gives us a powerful network. Now we just need a few misfits like a golem and an offensive dwarf or two, then we'll be in business." Alistair smiled, nostalgia merry in his voice. _Ah, yes, like back when we were rebels and underdogs instead of heroes and kings._ Solona threw an arm around her fellow warden's shoulder, recalling how easy it had been to rely on him all those years ago.

"Just like the good old days," she hummed happily, "Which reminds me: that was pretty impressive, what you did back there. Swooping in like that to the rescue? Very heroic."

"It was, wasn't it? Here I always thought swooping was something bad."

If any servants thought it odd that the King and Hero of Ferelden were laughing their way down the corridor dragging a comatose man behind, they wisely held their tongues and went back to work. Denizens of the Grand Cathedral were used to strange sights.


	15. Act IV:iii Indiscretion

Antiva City was built on generous coastal hills that swept down to the sea. Even if Morrigan didn't know the precise geography she could detect the carriage's movement towards the shadier districts by its gentle descent away from luxury. And the increasing smell of decay. She had guessed their destination by the time she saw the massive building looming above its (admittedly well-camouflaged) fortifications. The presence of heavily armed guards supported her assumption.

"Lady de Vici." The slobbering obsequiousness of the guards as soon as the dark haired noblewoman stepped out of the coach was total confirmation. The assassin turned back and extended a hand to assist Morrigan out of the carriage, Antivans were ever loyal to their antiquated ideas of courtesy. With no more than a nod to the men on either side of the entry, de Vici guided her guest through the doors and into a domed structure that put pagan temples to shame.

"The Archives." Ravenel gestured with pride to the massive storehouse of all Crow history.

The circular tower let in light from windows in the cupola, lacing the floor with fractured sun. Pillars supported multiple floors of bookshelves while spiral staircases reached high and low, sinews wrapped around bone. Alcoves and hallways branched in every direction, creating the symmetrical yet maze like effect of a web. A spider's web; and they stood in the center.

"A truly grand library." Morrigan couldn't muster her usual apathy, not in the face of so many treasured secrets. She'd drunk deep of the Well of Sorrows and still the sight of such knowledge could make her thirst again. Was it a form of greed? Enough of the Inquisitor's companions seemed to think as much. The witch preferred to believe that an enlightened mind should absorb as many truths in this universe as possible. The more one knew, the more they could understand. The more you understood, the more you could predict and protect. _Silly child, still trying to find meaning in chaos?_ A fleeting memory of Flemeth's voice shook her reverie.

"Our friend," de Vici put an inflection on the word that could only indicate Varric, "Suggested you might be able to help with an idea of mine. As you can see, if a stranger is to come in here searching for my family's records it could be rather arduous. I thought we might make it easier."

"By pulling out the relevant documents and placing them within convenient reach?" Morrigan skeptically looked around the display cases and study tables. There wasn't even dust on any of the surfaces. Anything left in disarray would be replaced, likely with suspicion.

"No, dear sorceress. I trust you must have a trick or two for magical markings?" The assassin beckoned her in the direction of a divergent hall.

"I have just the thing." The witch smiled, voices from the ancient past whispering to her in elven runes and green fire.

"My lovely Lady de Vici! I knew you wouldn't be able to stay away long." The loud and arrogant greeting boomed off the echoing corridor and Morrigan saw her companion visibly cringe. The Antivan' eyes rolled heavenward and there was a brief sneer of distaste before she composed herself and turned around to face the heavily approaching footsteps.

"Ezio," she greeted, smile wide and fake as an Orlesian mask, "I need to double check which of mother's contracts made enemies out of the Bacio family. The youngest son keeps setting off my traps and leaving blood everywhere."

"The burdens of success," the goateed man sighed sympathetically and then stopped, eyes falling instantly to Morrigan, "You bring your servants with you to the Archives now?"

The witch kept her reaction to nothing more than a flutter of her brow, pride desperate to lash out but held firmly in check. Ravenel inched closer, taking the apostate's wrist in her hand. A preventative measure? This Ezio was well dressed and well-armed. An equal or an enemy?

"Stunning isn't she? I found her at the ball last night and just couldn't tolerate letting her out of my sight. Can you blame me?" The assassin easily embellished the truth with little more than a laugh. Taking Morrigan's hand would have been for safety, this grip on her arm was pure possession.

"I doubt your mother would approve," the Crow frowned, "You are already stalling your family obligation. Perhaps you simply need a suitable partner? I would happily volunteer to be of service." The man leaned closer until Morrigan could smell the grease of his hair. Even his skin glistened. Was it any wonder his suggestive grin was as oily as the rest of him?

"Valisti, the de Vici bloodline has done quite well without bastards, failures or thieves; I'm not about to add all three. _That_ my mother definitely wouldn't approve." Ravenel kept her voice light and full of laughter. The threat lay in the set of her jaw and the fingers fluttering under her cloak, undoubtedly hovering over an entire arsenal of concealed weaponry. Ezio's face pulled back, words striking as sharp as any knife. The smile vanished and left only dark, shiny anger.

"Don't forget, harpy, there has been a Lady de Vici assassinating for the Crows for over 500 years. It has kept us all," Valisti paused, the snarl of his lips contorting to a vicious amusement, "Satisfied. We wouldn't want that tradition to end over one woman's stubborn proclivities."

Morrigan filed the crumbs of information into her own mental records, pieces to fit into the puzzle later. She could ignore the demeaning eyes that lingered on her with those snide words but not the grip tightening to nearly bruising strength around her wrist. Assassins clearly needed much more power in their hands than the average person. The average mage, at least.

"'Tis always a Lady? Never a Lord de Vici?" The apostate broke into the two killers' hateful staring match. Her voice successfully penetrated whatever maze of rage Ravenel had been lost to. The Antivan woman didn't look at her but she did blink and Morrigan felt the vice clamped on her arm release. She quickly recovered her wrist, flexing her fingers to bring back the flow of blood. Ezio turned his full attention to the outsider, smug with the delight of exposing someone else's secrets.

"In the family's early days in Treviso, perhaps. But it was always the women who excelled with poisons. The men are competent killers but never true assassins. It was a Lady de Vici who made the clan famous. Infamous, actually." Malicious eyes slid back to the family scion. The words could've been a compliment, being as they stood in a guild of paid assassins. Morrigan instinctively knew an insult had snaked beneath the praise.

"Which is far more than house Valisti could ever say. When the Crows start negotiating for _your_ offspring you can just point them to your last whore. Go off, Ezio," Ravenel waved a weary hand as if she were shooing a pestilent fly, "I have actual record books to consult, not the scraps of paper your people have left."

The Crow scowled, turning to storm away without a further word. De Vici watched his retreating back, lines of irritation carved in her brow. A few creative curses barely escaped beneath her breath before the noble recalled herself.

"I am sorry. That house is always producing the most dreadful boors. I'm sure they simply annoy their targets to death." Ravenel's smirk wasn't as wide as her smile had been, but it wasn't as fake either. The assassin turned sharply on her heel and continued down the corridor before more could be said; by either of them. Morrigan - who seldom found any other being interesting enough to acknowledge, let alone investigate – felt her curiosity piqued.

"Here we are. The records for House de Vici," Ravenel announced as they stepped into the final chamber of the hallway. The witch looked around the room, taking in rows of crowded bookshelves full of dark leather and crumbling scrolls.

"Which?" The apostate ran her fingers over endlessly identical spines. There were dozens, possibly even hundreds.

"All of them." The assassin sighed, regarding the ledgers like they were the Maker's own book of judgment. Oddly, her tone couldn't quite decide whether these tallies fell to virtue or sin.

"You cannot be serious." Morrigan watched as the Antivan woman headed straight for a back shelf, counting down the bindings to a specific target. With a note of triumph one record book was plucked from the rest and opened.

"No other single House has operated so consistently through the ages. All the rest are either much newer or long retired. Only my family continues." Ravenel began flipping through pages full of writing that could almost be another language yet was clearly gibberish. Coded gibberish.

"So I gathered from your associate," that word turned on the witch's tongue, magically becoming 'asshole' in her inflection, "I assume there is a history beneath all that hatred and repartee?"

"Oh dear, picked up on that did you?" De Vici's ironic smirk wasn't terribly surprised.

"A hint. 'Tis true? The Crows demand your family to continue producing assassins for them?" Morrigan's thoughts turned to Flemeth. The way the Witch had spoken of Wilder men like breeding stock, the subtle implication turning to command that one day her daughter would be the same.

"One of the first Ladies de Vici was power mad. If she'd been a mage she would've bargained with demons. But she was an assassin, so she made a deal with the Crows." The Antivan woman shrugged, only a trace of bitterness in her voice betraying the venom underneath her blasé summary.

"Mages generally trade only themselves, not their entire family in perpetuity." Morrigan's arched brow and tilted chin supplied her question mark, picking at the loose threads that dangled between Ravenel's words.

"I suppose she dreamed big." De Vici's laugh was hollow as it echoed off the walls round them, eyes trying to stay absorbed in the encrypted writing.

"Just what did her dream cost?" The witch wasn't sure how far she could push this subject.

When the noble's hands slammed the ledger shut Morrigan expected the conversation to be completely stopped, turned into a rebuke or a tirade on privacy. Instead of glaring at her with annoyance, the violet gaze that met the apostate was full of furious release. Righteous indignation tangled with relief in the storming color, alight with an eagerness to finally share truth.

"The de Vici family got greedy. My ancestress waged a personal war against the Crows, it spread blood and venom across every corner of Antiva City. She killed four Talons and twice as many guildmasters before they managed to capture her," Ravenel spat out the past, each fact a poison, "She should've been executed for her revolt. That would've been the end of it but the Crows were far more clever. Selfish bastards. They like good killers too much and she'd just proven what she was capable of. They offered her a bargain. Her life, the rank of Fourth Talon and a permanent title to be kept in the family line; in exchange, that line would provide the Crows with the deadliest possible assassin to inherit those privileges. One every generation."

"She betrayed the Crows and they trusted her to remain an ally?" Morrigan was seldom inclined to forgive; it was a weakness that begged future abuse. Somehow, she didn't think mercy or trust entered into any of these negotiations.

"Oh yes. She gave them ample evidence that she could deliver exactly what they wanted. At that point there were 53 known members of the de Vici clan. Aunts, uncles, cousins, her own children," Ravenel's anger grew quiet, her voice lingering as though she were mentally reciting every name, "Within six weeks all that remained were two: Lady de Vici and the niece who would inherit her title."

The witch of the wilds – who'd heard and seen scores of barbaric, exploitative, disgusting examples of mortal narcissism – easily leapt to the necessary but unstated conclusion. The Antivan clearly didn't want to say it aloud.

"She convinced her family to murder each other," Morrigan supplied. It was easy to see the logic yet impossible to comprehend.

"It's been a de Vici tradition ever since," Ravenel lifted an imaginary glass in toast, "The Crows know they're getting the best possible killer because the heir is only inducted when they've removed all their _competition_. I think other families call them 'siblings.' Sometimes the parents too."

Morrigan stayed silent. She knew she had sisters; she heard reports of other daughters of Flemeth scattered across Thedas. She had no particularly filial sentiments towards any of them but she also could not imagine determining to kill them all simply to fulfill an ancient family obligation. If successive generations of children were raised with such a mentality: to perceive those closest to them as nemeses? Small wonder the House de Vici became so adept at killing.

The air grew heavy, silence weighted down with unspoken questions. She could feel the assassin's gaze on her, watching the thoughts within her eyes. Ravenel's calm was patient but expectant. She was waiting for the inevitable. A dart of suspicion crept up Morrigan's spine and the assassin's slight nod confirmed that she saw it.

"My sister," De Vici supplied words before the witch needed to, "You wish to know if my family was any different? No. I killed my sister and inherited the title. Shall we continue?"

The apostate only nodded when the ledger was placed in her hands to be marked. It was a timely distraction for them both. She charged the spell, thinking of ancient civilizations and lost magic and all mankind's need to cannibalize itself. Somewhere beneath the cold vindication of knowing humanity was still a lost cause, Morrigan was aware that the shine in her ally's eye came from an unwept tear.

* * *

"Of course she'll be fine. The Templar recruit that she left before the battle will come find her and bring her back." Cassandra pointed out the infallible solution in that tone of voice that said the matter was beyond argument. She used that tone a lot. Inquisitor Trevelyan loved arguing anyway.

"The one she ordered to stay behind? How is he going to know she's in danger?" Eve shook her head.

"He's in love with her. He followed her to be sure she was safe even if it meant disobeying his commander's orders. It's more romantic that way." The Seeker, who'd spent a lifetime following orders, knew exactly how intensely someone had to feel to break them.

"We're calling that romantic now? Following people when they don't want you to? Because that means Cole has a thing for you." Trevelyan laughed and tried to rein her horse away but was a little too slow. Cassandra's irritated jab would've left a bruise if not for the armor.

"It would be most dramatic to have the Knight-Commander rescued by her love. Varric cannot resist drama." There it was again, that 'case closed' tone of voice. It was said with such serious finality that Eve could almost forget that they were talking about fictional events instead of real ones. Fictional events that hadn't even been written yet.

"Which is why it'll be the Knight-Captain! He's clearly the love interest." The Inquisitor used her best voice of absolute authority. She'd mastered it at the war table but it only really worked when she was tired from hours of arguments and Leliana a breath away from gutting Cullen.

"He's the one who relieved her of duty! He's hunting her to make her stand trial. She cannot be in love with him." Cassandra adamantly objected, ducking to avoid a low hanging vine. The steaming jungle of the Wilds didn't allow easy passage on horseback. They'd had to dismount and lead twice and their animals were panting in the heavy air.

"But that's why he'll be the one to find her and now she's got proof of her innocence. He'll rescue her and then listen. He's only been doing his duty but now he can help clear name. Besides, they were lovers before she got promoted." Eve wished Varric could write faster. Then they could find out who was right and simply argue with the dwarf about how he messed up the story. They always agreed about that.

"That was ancient history. Her feelings for the recruit are obvious. She's been flirting with him." Seeker Pentaghast inclined her ear towards the sound of a stream. Fresh water. The horses hadn't drank in hours and without a word they both turned toward the river.

"Ha! Telling him he needs to polish his sword? That isn't flirting, that's teasing. Cruelly, I might add," the Inquisitor scoffed. Privately, she could admit that in her Seeker's world something that subtle might be flirtatious but Eve had been doing her damnedest to teach the woman what flirting really looked like.

"What about when they stood guard together and named stars?" Cassandra had loved that scene.

"A bit educational. I did like when she told him the origin of Eluvia. Who doesn't like a good lustful mage story? But I'd take that battle between the Knight-Commander and Captain any day. I didn't know anyone could use the word 'thrust' that many times on a page." Trevelyan stopped her horse by the river, sliding off and letting him drink. Her companion did the same.

"That was certainly an example of Varric's writing prowess," the Seeker admitted with a hint of affection, either for the writer or the scene, "But it was hardly romantic."

"Anything can be romantic, Cassandra, if you're in love with someone." Eve took a few casual paces closer to the brunette. The conversation was taking an unexpected turn and she was quickly coming up with ideas.

"I do not think that's quite true." The Nevarran countered but with a small smirk begging for argument. She didn't move any closer to the approaching Inquisitor, she didn't back away either.

"No? Here we are showing our devotion to duty and chasing a runaway mage through this wilderness of unknown dangers. Just the two of us against anything that comes, that's already romantic." Trevelyan slid into Cassandra's personal space, wishing she weren't festooned in armor.

"You confuse romance and peril." The Seeker's heart wasn't in her objection.

"They go together wonderfully." Eve smirked but lost possession of her lips when Cassandra closed the distance. Hours on horseback talking, laughing, arguing, making plans for well-earned brutality; she enjoyed all her time with the Seeker. Anything they did together was wonderful but this was her favorite. Their kisses could be fast and rough, barely able to keep up with the excess of releasing passion. Or they could be brief and teasing, playfully leading toward other games. Then there were the ones like this, languid and tender, a reassurance that neither of them cared about anything else that happened so long as these stolen moments were possible. In this embrace, the Maker himself could return and cast Thedas into the Void and neither woman would care.

Eve cursed the gauntlets that separated her from the touch of Cassandra's skin. She wanted to feel the soft warmth of her cheek, the lithe lines of her neck, the tickling brush of her hair. She was just about to surrender and begin stripping the blighted metal from her hands when Cassandra pulled back, ignoring her sound of protest.

"You argue eloquently," the Seeker's hazel eyes were darker, lustrous against the flush of her skin, "But I am not convinced this is the best place for such persuasions."

"Are you sure?" The Inquisitor wanted to listen to that Nevarran tongue wrap around words like 'persuasion' for hours, "There's a crystal clear stream, gorgeous flowers, the delicate smell of perfume everywhere, a distant sound of someone screaming . . ."

"A what?" Cassandra demanded, not entirely certain if her lover was joking. Eve could have a twisted sense of humor at times but even she didn't quite realize what she'd said. Then she heard her own words. It wasn't a joke.

"Ah, shit." The Inquistor leapt back into her saddle, leaning into a hard gallop in the direction of the screams.

* * *

Once Morrigan placed the veilfire rune on de Vici's family record book she assumed their task complete. She was mistaken. The assassin lead her back the way they'd come but pulled another ledger from the shelf closest to the corridor.

"This as well, if you would." Ravenel extended the book to be marked as well. The few minutes it had taken Morrigan to cast her spell had allowed the noblewoman ample time to recover her graces.

"I thought we only had need of the one contract?" The witch eyed the proffered volume with distrust.

"My dear lady, the Crows may not be scholars but they are not as stupid as we might wish. If they find the Archive robbed but only records from my family missing, how long do you imagine it would take for them to see my hand?" De Vici easily pointed out a flaw in the assumed plan.

"I did not think assassins required such imagination." Morrigan smirked, taking the ledger to begin her spell. Their earlier conversation had bred a faint sense of camaraderie. Learning of the Antivan woman's trapped life had kindled a tiny spark of sympathy in the witch. She felt more at ease in the assassin's presence, more comfortable with her manner.

"You have no idea the things I can imagine." Ravenel's teasing words slid between challenge and promise, conveying dozens of fantasies all wound around a specific sorceress.

"Nor do I care to know." Morrigan's rebuke was sharp. She was not _that_ comfortable.

"Another time," De Vici brushed off the rejection without even a dent in her smile, "Now, tell me of this magic you are using. I have never seen its like."

The witch wasn't certain if the change of topic was a sincere curiosity or just another attempt at flattery. She was deliberately detached as she explained veilfire; the creation, loss and eventual rediscovery. It was difficult to remain completely aloof, finding herself caught up in the marvel of the ancient elven secret. Each rune took several minutes to cast and while she had to concentrate, she found her mind flowed more easily with the old spells when their history was on her tongue. She described the knowledge stored in glyphs found across Thedas. Sometimes they were complicated schematics or records of adventure, other times they were just present to convey the terror and pain of those who'd long ago perished.

"They can give feeling?" Ravenel asked in surprise.

"Sensation, emotion, ideas – they capture whatever needed to be preserved for others." The witch affirmed.

"Then, what are you putting into these marks? What will someone feel when they're found?" The assassin's hand lifted, tempted to touch the burgeoning magic as if to sample the coming sensation. Wisely, she resisted.

"A strong impulse to go straight down this corridor." Morrigan nodded to the hallway that led to the eventual goal. The simplicity was laughable, considering how many more complex ideas could be placed in an elven glyph. The apostate had merely decided it best to keep her magic practical.

"You are truly brilliant." De Vici's smile of wonder was alive with honest admiration.

"Indeed? Tell me something I do not know." The witch laughed back, warmed with a tickle of pride. She felt the spell finish and returned the ledger to its shelf, any difference invisible to the naked eye.

"A few more signposts are all we need for this magical trail to the prize!" The Antivan strode purposefully to a further bookcase, rummaging in the books, "Ah! The House of Lanos, I would say they were rats if it did not elevate them too much. They always have the most filthily underhanded of dealings."

"Delightful. I trust they washed before making records." Morrigan took the volume with mild distaste.

"They actually can be quite entertaining for reading. In that one, for example, is the contract on a dairy trader in Seleny . . ." Ravenel passed the minutes of the spell by entertaining the apostate with a story involving an assassin, a farmer's daughter and something terribly improbable with a milking cow.

"That was truly awful." Despite herself, Morrigan laughed.

"Oddly enough, that's what she said too! Though, it really should've been the cow." The other woman grinned, reveling in a pleased audience.

"You made it up." The witch shoved the records back into their spot, willingly following the noble as she strolled further along the shelves.

"You said assassins weren't imaginative." The raven haired killer retorted, grabbing two scrolls from the central bookcase.

"I can adjust my assumptions." Morrigan took each scroll in either hand. Two runes at once would take a little longer.

"I truly hope so." De Vici's words were so quiet they might have been meant for herself. Only because they had stopped laughing and grown still did either of the women hear the approaching footsteps.

"Someone is coming." Morrigan instinctively started to release the scrolls. Hands grabbing her own forced them to stay in place, backing her into the solid mass of the bookcase. Wrists now trapped behind her back, the witch felt the edge of shelving biting into her arms and shoulders.

"I'm sorry." Ravenel's eyes shouted the apology that barely left her lips before they suddenly pressed to the apostate's own.

Morrigan's first thought, on realizing she was being kissed, was to blast the assassin across the room. She couldn't because her hands were still pinned between her back and the shelves, caught in de Vici's own fingers. A gentle tightening of that grip reminded Morrigan of what she had clenched in her fists.

The scrolls. Her second thought finally grasped what was happening. The magic needed time and Lady de Vici was providing cover for Morrigan to finish her spells. The footsteps growing louder reminded her of the impending danger. This was not the precise solution the witch would've chosen herself, but swift and effective given the circumstances. Assassins were quick witted and knew how to conceal themselves. This one was clearly an expert at hiding in plain sight.

Her third thought - which she desperately tried not to have – was to wonder how a deception could feel so achingly sincere. Morrigan's mind fought against analyzing what she felt. The Antivan noble was experienced, she'd probably engaged in this subterfuge a hundred times. That was obviously why it felt so genuine, so intense and so very, very thorough.

She had kissed Kieran's face when he was a babe, reveling in the softness of his skin. As he grew older she'd press her lips to the top of his head before bed, inhaling the scent that was all of youth and innocence. Those were the kisses that moved her, that reached deep into her emotions and demanded to be carved in memory. She'd never let anyone else into her space so intimately. The presence of this assassin's taste and touch so artfully invading her senses was incomprehensible, overwhelming.

There was still a scent. Morrigan cataloged the sensations, demanding control of the moment. The smell was a trace of fragrance, the barest hint of perfume on heated skin filling the air between them. And the softness. More than she ever recalled from any of the rough encounters that were supposed to be exchanges of affection. There was no power or hunger, none of the selfish touches that stained Morrigan's few experiences with sensual indulgence. Ravenel's lips were delicate and yielding, begging forgiveness even as she coaxed cooperation from the witch's mouth. The plush caresses enveloped her, every sense subservient to the demand to understand this entire experience, to explore it thoroughly and capture what made it so different from any other.

The mouth against her own parted and Morrigan's mind shot back into reality. Before the assassin could ravage her senses further she struck, teeth sinking hard into a lower lip. She felt Ravenel tense, a startled grunt of pain caught in the kiss. Even though the embrace continued, Morrigan could now be certain they were _both_ concentrating on the approaching audience.

"Maker's breath, de Vici! Must you turn the Archives into your personal playground?" the familiar scornful tone of Ezio Valisiti shouted an irritated reprimand. Ravenel finally ended the kiss, pulling away from Morrigan just enough to look at the intruder – not enough to expose the magic concealed behind them.

"You're just jealous that I find the best toys." The noblewoman taunted, tossing a wink to the Crow before turning her attention back to the trapped apostate. She wasn't so foolish as to kiss her again, turning her lips instead to the skin of her cheek. Light touches brushed up Morrigan's face, exploring her ear, moving down her neck. Each caress as subtle and persuasive as they had been against her lips.

The witch watched as Ezio shook his head and strode away, muttering jealous curses beneath his breath. He was beyond the main entrance when Morrigan felt the veilfire spells complete. She dropped the scrolls and grabbed a handful of de Vici's hair, yanking her away.

"You bit me!" Ravenel accused as soon as they were eye to eye and several inches apart. The color of her gaze was alive with a confusion of reactions; fury, excitement and laughter. Above them all was triumph.

"You kissed me!" The apostate shot right back, just as rightfully incensed. That the plan had worked, the spells cast without being caught, Valisti leaving without suspicion; none of it mattered so much as the liberties taken. Even if they'd almost been given.

"Trust me, I could've done much worse." Lady de Vici chuckled, already beginning to turn away. Morrigan caught a fistful of her cloak and yanked her back to absorb the full impact of her stare.

"And so could I." The words left her as a threat, shoving the assassin away. It was a promise of the consequences if her space was ever violated again. As they echoed in the departing women's ears, however, they began to twist to something else. There was a note of temptation, a challenge to match wills against desires and see which was strongest. Morrigan had intended to frighten Ravenel de Vici but, as they climbed back into the coach, she realized she'd practically issued an invitation.


	16. Act IV:iv Conflict

Eve cursed as she dodged a heavy tree branch only to get whipped by the dangling vines. She was riding as low on her mount as possible, inhaling metal and horse sweat and still the Wilds pressed in, trying to suffocate all movement. She could see the churned verdure and broken undergrowth that marked Solace's trail. Far more worrying were the signs that she couldn't see; the absence of tracks yet the prickling sweat on the back of her neck that wasn't just jungle heat. She wasn't alone crashing through this foliage. Cassandra rode steadfastly on her heels but Trevelyan instinctively knew there were far more bodies nearby.

Eve felt like she was charging through a tunnel, a breathing, growing tunnel. On all sides was only green. Moss covered rocks and trees, creeping vines, dense vegetation; a hundred shades across the spectrum but all still green. The wide gash of color looming up in the trail ahead was almost surreal in the surroundings. Red that hadn't just pooled but splattered. The Inquisitor pulled her horse to a halt, the charger whinnying and prancing nervously at the scent of its own kind so violently torn apart.

"An ancient trap?" Cassandra arrived beside Trevelyan, also eyeing the bloody remains.

"Trap for sure. Not so ancient." Eve scanned the ground, then the tree line and finally the canopy above. There was no trace of Solace. She must have been thrown clear when it triggered. Getting tossed from a horse and turning back to find it violently disassembled? That would definitely warrant some screaming. Eve clucked twice to her charger, urging him back into movement but more cautiously now.

"The Sentinels? Abelas said they were leaving." The Seeker followed close, eyes prowling the motionless jungle.

"Yes. The Temple. He never said how far they'd go." The Inquisitor frowned. The Arbor Wilds were savage, primal. There was no better place for ancient elven warriors awakened from their centuries of sleep.

"They're watching." Cassandra felt the same eyes and danger that had Eve's fists clenching tight on her reins. Instinctively, both riders increased their speed.

"They may not attack. We didn't harm them or the Temple. We left in peace and so did they." Trevelyan forced herself not to think about the fact that they'd taken the Well of Sorrows against the sentinels' wishes.

"That was when they were carrying out their duty and we could help them. They might feel differently now." The Seeker added her own skepticism to Eve's doubts.

The Inquisitor would have spoken up to echo the concern but a flash of movement and color ahead caught her attention. Cotton stands out amidst so much foliage. A light kick and her charger bolted forward, building to a full gallop as she closed in. The mage ran with the sheer speed of adrenaline. It might've been the Inquisition, elves or an army of hurlocks behind her but the woman raced like her life depended on it, not even looking over her shoulder.

Eve waited for exactly the right second and leapt off her horse, tackling Solace to the ground.

"Maker damn you! Get off! Bastard tin can tart!" The runaway thrashed and fought, lashing out with every limb and weapon at her disposal. Four nails opened scratches on the Inquisitor's cheek even as she wrestled both flailing wrists behind her back. By the time Cassandra caught up she found Trevelyan pinning their escapee to the ground, her face muffled in the leaves and mud but clearly trying to yell curses.

"Rope." Eve demanded, catching a tossed coil in one hand and rapidly binding the struggling woman's wrists. She was none too gentle either, judging by the heightened pitch and venom of the profanities. Once Solace's arms were bound the Inquisitor did the same to her legs. Then she wrapped a few more loops and knots around her whole form, turning the human being into a tied roast. If Trevelyan had a sack large enough, she'd have stuffed her in it and tied that off as well.

"Now, I think we might actually get back to the Cathedral." Eve rose, cut cheek too sore to smile. She noticed the mage's satchel, still heavy with enchantments and pulled it away, tossing it into the jungle. It was the first thing that made Solace stop cursing.

"You can't do that! Those are important! They're mine. You have to bring them along!" The mage protested, fighting her bindings.

"So you can knock us out again? I think not." Cassandra dropped off her horse long enough to help the Inquisitor sling their bound prisoner over her charger. The inelegant position turned her into so much cargo and even with her cheek pressed to the horse's haunch she continued to argue.

"You can't take me back. You don't even want me!" she shouted as Trevelyan mounted, "You want a symbol, right? Someone to stand up in front of all the Chantry and wear a bloody bullseye for all the nut-job mage haters? Not me!"

"Shut up." Eve twitched the reins and they turned back in the direction they'd come. It still felt like eyes were glued to the back of her neck and the sweltering air was oppressive with threat. She strained to listen for movement beyond the edge of hearing.

"Come on! Maker damn you! There's got to be some other mage that wants the job! I'm not the only one – or did the bloody Templars kill them all? There have to be others out there working on this 'reversal' whatever you want! You dogged bitch!" The mage was still thrashing in her ties.

"I said shut up!" Trevelyan couldn't hear anything over the noise but she knew the sentinels were there. She felt the Seeker draw up alongside, casting her a worried glance, silently communicating the presence that was closing in. Were they coming to make sure the invaders left peacefully? Or not at all?

"You can just say I died out here! Find someone else! Find someone better! Why did you chase me? Why does it have to be me? There must be dozens of others. Maker, will you listen to me? I don't matter!" Solace's shout was loud enough that the Maker himself might have heard it. Eve growled and jumped off her horse, dragging the mage with her. She held the slight woman tightly in both fists, forcing her to eye level. She could see the blonde's anger bleeding away and despair setting in.

"Yes you do!" The Inquisitor shouted back, shaking the mage until she focused properly, "You matter. All those other Tranquil do too and I WILL get to them because you are all important! An injustice was committed. You were wronged – maybe all of you. It's a crime that has to be fixed and I swear on Andraste's own tears I am going to make it right for as many as I can, starting with you!"

In the silence after her rant Eve heard her own words echoing in her head. She could tell that even Cassandra had been holding her breath, stunned by the raw intensity of the tirade and the confession underneath. Trevelyan watched Solace's blinking eyes absorb the impact of what she'd said.

"Why?" the mage repeated the question, disbelief barely a whisper, "Why me?"

"Because you're the first I can help." The Inquisitor only realized the truth as she spoke it.

She'd been furious with the runaway for being difficult and clever but stupid. She hated that what should've taken two days was now stretched to the better part of a week. She cursed the universe that she had to chase this woman through a jungle of death instead of being in the Grand Cathedral doing incredibly inappropriate things to Cassandra under the eyes of the Maker.

Through all that anger, however, she only knew she had to find the mage. She meant every word she'd said. Solace was important. Even if she were never the symbol of reversal and unification that Leliana wanted (with that mouth it seemed doubtful) she was still a symbol to the Inquisitor. She was the first hope of righting wrongs for the Tranquil. They'd been helpless for so long and not even the mighty Inquisition had known what to do for them. People she couldn't rescue – there was nothing harder to accept.

If Eve's violence, temper, tirade and sincerity weren't enough to subdue the captured mage, the frustrated helplessness bleeding under her words got through. Solace didn't speak; she didn't even blink. She barely managed a slow nod, confirming that she'd finally begun to understand.

"Good." Trevelyan loosened her grip on the bound woman, licking her lips as they seemed to still be tingling from the emotions that had spilled across them. The intensity that had gripped her in those few minutes began to bleed away, returning her to the rest of the world.

The rest of the world had gone still. Eve's eyes shot up, looking in every direction. No birdsong, no tree rustle, not even the breathing of the wind. An approaching silence sucked up all other sound and it was almost on top of them.

"Down!" Cassandra dropped to the ground, dragging both women with her under the hail of arrows that shot past. The Seeker had already rolled to a crouch, weapon ready.

"I guess they got tired of waiting for us to leave." The Inquisitor mirrored her posture, sword unsheathed. The shrill battle call came up from all sides, closing them in as the trees themselves began to move, splitting apart, opening up and disgorging elves so perfectly matched to this world they were nearly invisible. They stalked closer, circling their prey.

"You have to go." Cassandra's first flash of blade wasn't toward an enemy but to cut through the ropes binding Solace. What had taken Eve minutes to tie fell away with a few artful slices.

"What?!" Eve echoed the mage's own confusion, almost daring to take her eyes off their attackers just to see if the Seeker had lost her mind.

"We found her twice. We can do it again. There are too many of them to risk her getting killed. Go!" the warrior explained even as she shoved their captive toward freedom. Solace hesitated, a runaway suddenly full of doubts about what she did best. Then she came to her senses and bolted into the jungle.

"Here I thought our adventure was winding down." Trevelyan sighed, spotting the sentinel that she was certain would come after her first.

"I do not believe it ever will." Cassandra replied and though neither were looking at each other, they both shared a smirk.

* * *

Bethany wasn't comfortable in Chantries. She was Andrastean and loved the Chant of Light itself but a childhood of running from Templars had taught her to be wary of the official organization. It was hard to like people that wanted to lock you in a tower for being born different. Even with an official invitation from her cousin and the Divine herself, the youngest Hawke didn't feel right attending the ceremonies. Or walking in the courtyard. Or darting down the halls of the Grand Cathedral to get outside. She still felt like an intruder despite having been a guest for months. She preferred to stay in her room and obsessively study the recipes and instructions Morrigan had compiled.

On the few occasions when she needed to wander out she avoided the servants, uncomfortable with the luxury of people doing things for you simply because you exist. It certainly didn't help that they insisted on calling her Hawke – Lady Hawke, serah Hawke, any Hawke – she never could grasp that they meant her and not her older sister. Marian was Hawke and always had been, even when they were children. Bethany was just Bethany. And the servants were servants, vaguely confused by this Grey Warden that never answered when they called to her and hid in her room. They all learned to avoid each other and life was peaceful.

Until the door to Bethany's room banged open, startling her so badly she jostled the table and dribbled her weak ale all over one of Fiona's reports.

"Maker's whiskers!" the young mage grabbed a cloth and began soaking up the liquid, turning with a sharp rebuke for the servant that had violated their rules of non-engagement. Instead she found the Hero of Ferelden rapidly shutting the door and waving for her to be quiet.

"Solona?" Bethany asked in surprise, watching the intrepid warden quickly close the distance between them. If her relation was here it meant the Chant of Light had ended singing for the day. But why would she come here in such a rush?

"Sorry, cousin. I just need a place to hide for a few minutes." The older woman apologized, voice deliberately low.

"Hide from what?" the confused mage only grew more worried by the strange behavior. Was one of the potions having an unexpected side effect? Was paranoia a sign of the Calling's return?

"Have you _utterly_ lost your mind?!" the door flew open again, this time almost splintering when it hit the wall. A halo of red hair could make righteous anger so much more dramatic and Leliana's indignation filled the room.

"This," Solona groaned, "Leli, my love-,"

"You must have! Why else would you run to danger without any alert or assistance? You do know my agents are everywhere, yes? You could have been killed!" Divine Victoria channeled the wrath of the Maker in a much prettier package.

"It was just a sad kid with a crossbow." The Hero groaned, surrendering to the approaching fury.

"This time! It could have easily been the House of Repose. Or a bitter Templar or crazed mage! A hundred people want me dead and a dozen have probably paid gold to see it done. That does not mean _you_ must try to die!" Leliana stopped only inches away from Solona. Even with her mouth drawn into a thin line, the bard looked beautiful angry.

"I didn't want to disrupt the Chant. Alistair had my back." Amell argued helplessly.

"A merciful fortune that he happened to be awake during those minutes," Most Holy snapped, "I saw you go, Solona. You left without a word or gesture. You saw a threat and raced forward without thought. I used to think it so brave but now I wonder, _Hero_. It could be a streak of arrogance, yes?"

"I'm not going to apologize for wanting to keep you safe!" The maligned Hero shot back just as sharply. Nerves were strung tight enough to hum like guitar strings under each plucking word.

"Is it not the same for me?" Leliana pointed out, rage beginning to fall away to tired pain. Solona's mouth opened to retort, then clicked shut, grasping the full import of the Divine's words.

"Maker, I'm an ass," Warden Amell sighed, a soft chuckle swelling beneath her breath, "I saw a danger and took off after it like always but this isn't all those times anymore, is it?"

"No. We have always fought for each other but we did it side by side," the redhead reached out to stroke her Hero's cheek, "You raced off to protect me and there was nothing I could do to help. You must know how that felt. That it was agony, no?"

"I know. I didn't think." Solona shook her head, lifting her own hand to hold the soft fingers against her face.

"I could not bear to lose you, my love. Not before and especially not now." Swelling emotion darkened Leliana's azure gaze.

"It won't happen again, Leli. I promise." The mage reached out and pulled her beloved close, wrapping her in a tight hug, arms tethering them to the reality of each other. They held one another until it felt like their heartbeats pulsed in calmed rhythm together.

"There is also the fact that you ran from the throne room like a startled nug as soon as the Chant ended," The Divine teased, spotting Bethany and giving her a swift wink, "The rise of an Archdemon could not move you faster than fear of my scolding!"

"I just thought," Solona leaned back, quickly fumbling for an answer, "I wouldn't want the Most Holy to say or do anything she'd regret here in the house of the Maker."

"'Maker, know my heart,'" Leliana smirked as she murmured the words of Transfigurations 12, "I think He does and will assuredly forgive me this lapse."

Bethany averted her eyes as soon as the kiss began. She'd witnessed a few a romantic moments between the two women over her months in their company and they always left her wanting to simultaneously stare and melt into the wall. She'd seldom seen comfortable and sincere displays of affection in her life. Outside her family anyway. With Hawke and Isabela it was always innuendo, laughter and lust; they kept their more tender inclinations (assuming they had any) in private. Seeing this open and honest kind of love made her feel like she should burst into applause.

Then again, there were limits to the openness and honesty given that this was still the Grand Cathedral, two women and, oh, yes, the Divine. They were all well aware of the rules. When Leliana broke the kiss it was with clear regret. When she turned to leave with little more than murmured apologies, it was torture for both her and Solona.

"Sleep well, my love. Look for me in your dreams as you will be in mine." When she offered the parting words of her goodbye, it was with a deliberate wink.

* * *

"Maker take you!"

Inquisitor Trevelyan grinned, hearing the victorious curse. She could always track Cassandra's progress by the number of angry blessings shouted at corpses. The Seeker was clearly in excellent form today. Eve blocked a heavy sword swipe, spinning her attacker to take the blade meant for her back. The sentinel dropped from view just as her weapon swung around and decapitated the second.

The ranks of the elves were relentless. Picking off the archers left only the up close slaughter of melee and the more bodies fell, the harder it was to keep footing. The Inquisitor lost track of time in battles. They could've been fighting for minutes or hours and there would be no way to know until sundown.

"Is there no end to them?" Cassandra demanded, simultaneously slicing through one enemy and bashing another.

The Inquisitor silently echoed the complaint. They'd killed more than a dozen already and still more came, appearing like magic from the jungle, deadly fruit dropping from the trees. If Sera were with them she'd be picking them out of their perches with her little arrows, giggling and cursing in that singsong voice of hers. Or Dorian could be lighting them up with lightning spells like his own private fireworks display. Or Bull, Bull was great for anything. The Inquisitor dodged a flung dagger and slammed her elbow into the gut of the bastard getting ready to give her the worst haircut ever. She really did wish Bull was here.

"What was it Varric said in the Dales?" the Seeker shouted to be heard over another death scream. She was closer now, almost back to back with Trevelyan as they held their ground.

"Which time?" Eve parried a blade, lunging forward and slamming the sentinel into solid rock.

"When we got trapped in the cave with all those Shades and ran out of potions." Cassandra clarified, grunting as she bashed another attacker.

"'Much more of this and all I'll be able to do is bullshit them?'" The Inquisitor laughed as she remembered the exact wording. The dwarf had a gift for making the battlefield entertaining.

"We could use his bullshit now." The Seeker brought the edge of her shield around, the corner slicing through a throat.

"Aw, you miss him! I was just thinking about Bull." Eve teased, dancing nimbly away from three converging swords. So far she'd suffered only bruises beneath her armor but they were beginning to ache and cost her speed.

"I do not!" the Nevarran objected, rolling under an attack and knocking an elf clean off his feet as she rose, "I miss Bianca."

"That little beauty! Who wouldn't?" Trevelyan groaned, wishing for the almost magical hail of arrows that could rain down with such precision and end a fight in seconds. The sentinels were trying to close ranks, to tighten around the spinning duo and outflank them. Eve's boot lashed out, regaining her ground but a blow from the left caught her shoulder. Even through armor the Inquisitor felt the bite of metal.

"Shit! That's going to leave a mark!" Trevelyan raged, spinning and slamming the pommel of her sword into a nose that was too close for comfort. Her curse attracted Cassandra's attention, eyes darting briefly to check her injury.

"You already have scars there." The Seeker observed, turning back to drive two attackers out of her space.

"I meant my armor!" Eve shouted, she couldn't even feel blood pouring from the wound, the air of the jungle too warm and wet already. The Inquisitor was a woman who loved her armor.

"Harritt will make you more." Cassandra laughed, fully aware of the number of upgrades and customizations the smith was constantly making to the woman's defenses. Harritt loved the armor even more than the woman who wore it. How many hours did the Inquisitor spend in the undercroft designing minute changes?

"But I finally got this broken in right!" Trevelyan moaned, "Assholes. I'm getting really sick of this."

Trevelyan had been kicked, bashed, punched, staggered, and now stabbed. Her ribs were aching from the many blows her (justifiably prized) armor had deflected and she couldn't get a proper breath in this damn swamp forest anyway. The first kill of a battle is adrenaline. The next four are pride. By ten deaths there's triumph but as the numbers climb so does the sense of dismay. How much more of this? How many could there be? Eve fought the swelling fatigue, lashing out with renewed focus. She sent her mind to victory, to the story she would make out of this for Varric when they got home. _Fifty sentinels, no, a hundred! Sword stabbed through my shoulder – or maybe arm cut clean off? I need a dragon in here too. And a bunny rabbit for Cole._

Eve felt prickling in the air, a sensation that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. The only weapon that the sentinels hadn't used against them was magic, but the Inquisitor instantly recognized the feel. A colored gem sailed over her head, dropping on the far side of their impromptu battlefield.

"Spell!" Trevelyan yelled, diving to the ground just as the air filled with the taste of sharpness. Lightning arced out of the stone, grounding in the nearest three elves and crackling out their mouths.

Eve rolled further away as more of the missiles rained down from the sky. She spotted Cassandra taking cover behind a pile of bodies just as an inferno burst out of the ground, torching a handful of confused sentinels and filling the sky with greasy black smoke. A third rune hit an enemy warrior full in the chest and he froze solid before a fourth shattered him in the force of a blast wave that sent debris flying everywhere. Trevelyan rolled deeper into the brush, watching the rage of the elements whip through swiftly falling ranks of sentinels. The noise and crackle of power blended with smoke and burning flesh and tortured but brief screams of pain. Eve felt the earth beneath her vibrating, trembling then shaking as a quake rent the jungle, swallowing up corpses and drowning out all other sound.

When the roar finally ceased, the echo promising to ring in her ears for hours to come, the Inquisitor got to her feet. She stepped out of the trees and saw Cassandra also emerging from cover, surveying the devastation. Not a breathing enemy left in sight. The two warriors looked at each other, mildly confused but overwhelmingly pleased. After surviving so many battles they both knew to just be grateful for miracles, not question the source.

A stir from the tall vegetation whipped them both around, reflexes instantly back on guard. A mess of blonde hair peeked above a thick fern. Nervous eyes rapidly darted over the damage before resting on the two standing fighters. Solace's gaze rolled heavenward for only a moment, her own sigh of relief matching both warriors'. She came back?

"Sorry," the mage rose from her hiding place, a smirk gradually spreading across her features, "I had to go back for my satchel."

Eve darted a glance to the familiar bag of enchantments resting on the woman's shoulder. It definitely had grown lighter. She came back to help?

"Thank you." Cassandra spoke first, always the source of dignity and honor on a battlefield.

"Does this mean you aren't going to try to run again?" The Inquisitor still couldn't get past the shock. Her every muscle was coiled, ready to have to leap out and chase once more no matter the tiredness that ached to her bones.

"You let me go rather than risk me getting hurt. I guess that means I'm safe with you. For now." Solace's shrug was casual but still cautious.

"Thank the Maker. Let's get out of here. The horses won't have gone far." Eve whistled for their chargers to return.

"Right, horses. With more rope. Yippee." The mage sighed, surrendering to the cost of her decision.

"No rope. For now." The Inquisitor clarified, matching the blonde's own playful tone of warning.

No one could pretend to be Tranquil if they didn't have absolute control of their facial expressions. Eve saw only the slightest glimmer of surprise dart through Solace's eyes before being masked once more. A shy smile did make its way across her lips though and she lifted the satchel of enchantments from her shoulder. Without a word she held them out to Cassandra for possession. The Seeker accepted the gesture with no more than a pleased nod. After everything they'd all been through in the past four days, it was good to feel the first soothing hints of trust.

* * *

Varric watched out of the corner of his eye the weirdness happening across the room. It wasn't just the way Lady de Vici and Zevran so easily talked and laughed, it was the fact that Morrigan was watching them as well. The witch had a look of irritated concentration on her face. He'd seen that look before. It had been on Dagna's face when he brought her the first sample of red lyrium at Skyhold. The master arcanist had studied the substance with a mixture of fascination and fear, wonder and loathing. It was the exact face Morrigan had now.

The dwarf shook his head, chuckling as he wondered just what de Vici had done and, more importantly, what the witch was planning to do in return. They were gathered in the salon of the inn, dinner long past and other guests either heavily drunk or already passed out. Varric took a pull at his whiskey, scanning the map he'd drawn. It wasn't a scale blueprint by any means, but it was a fair representation. Part of him almost wished he could be the one to use it. The larger part was just glad Nightingale had found someone even crazier to do the job.

"Varric! Show me that virile trunk of chest hair!" the loud greeting announced Isabela before the inn door had even opened. The pirate swept in, a radiant vision of skin and obscenity.

"Rivaini, I thought for sure those horn heads finally got your ass!" the dwarf got to his feet, receiving a hearty hug, friendly kiss and familiar fondling of golden curls. The ones below his neck.

"They wouldn't have the first idea what to do with anything so fine." Hawke retorted, grinning as she also gave the dwarf a thoroughly platonic molestation.

"Maker's stones, how many people am I working for?" a face that was more eyes and smudges than skin appeared behind the Champion.

"Just the one, but she likes having a lot of people underneath her." Isabela supplied, smirking when Aveline scowled at her.

"Our Divine has many friends," Zevran corrected as he joined the group, "But there is always room for more."

The two reunited knots of friends introduced their strangers, flirtations and warnings immediately flying between any number of them. Varric poured mugs of whiskey and handed them around, silencing the noise and restoring order. So many of their problems could be solved by just occupying everyone's mouths.

"Is this the Archive?" Elani looked at the map the dwarf had been working on.

"It is. The bad news is it was a Dragon's Crèche when we went in before and after that little stunt their sure to have upgraded. Good news is there aren't many dwarves around doing this kind of vanity work anymore. Pretty sure you'll hit all the same traps, just more of them and maybe a bit nastier." Varric gestured to where he'd marked each trigger.

"No, handsome, the Falling Mountain was by the third pillar on the left, not the fifth." Isabela leaned over to examine the details, a position that coincidentally put her assets on fuller display. Zevran and Hawke were only too pleased to observe.

"Rivaini, I think I remember better than you do, I was actually sober when we went in." Varric argued.

"And still missed the alarm, as I recall." The sailor teased back.

"The record you need to steal is in this chamber," de Vici interrupted the squabble, finger tapping the location, "A few others as well will add some confusion. You'll find them easily thanks to Lady Morrigan's lovely touch."

A violet glance swept up to land on the witch, lingering with more than praise. The apostate met the gaze without comment, but either it or the compliment had brought a hint of color to her skin. Varric's own eyes darted between the two. _Shit, what happened in there?_

"Who's my backup?" Elani looked over the crowd of allies.

"Most of us can't go near the Archive. Crows know us on sight. It's down to Hawke, Aveline or Morrigan." Varric pointed out the options.

"Rogue, warrior, mage. Not bad. I'll take all three." The thief easily decided.

"No! Hawke doesn't get to go play if I don't." Isabela immediately objected, jaw set for a fight.

"Your beauty is far too recognizable, dear Isabela." Zevran shook his head.

"Then she can make do with Big Girl and the ice bitch. Maker's balls, our ginger battering ram could probably just punch through the wall." The pirate was unyielding.

Varric sighed. He had a feeling this would happen. The two rogues weren't into being tied down but when they were on the same piece of Thedas they were inseparable. It might've been because they loved nothing so much as wreaking havoc and destruction together – and together they created a lot of both – but he privately suspected the motive ran deeper. Far deeper. Probably subterranean with Isabela.

"Good enough. Perimeter guards aren't all that alert after midnight anyway." Elani shrugged, accepting the conditions. Before any new arguments could begin, Varric resumed talking.

"You'll want to watch out for the Fire Mountain triggers, all that paper could turn into a disaster quick. There were two here and-,"

"Right, if I'm going in tonight I need some sleep. We go straight from shit to ship, yeah?" the thief was already turning away from the map and heading for the stairs, stretching languorously.

"Wait, you don't want to know about the traps? You're just going to go to bed?" Hawke asked, torn between amusement and surprise.

"Traps are for people who walk in. And yes, I am," Elani waved off the concern and then paused with a sudden thought, "Wait, you don't think they have a bath here do they? I desperately need a bath."

The group of companions watched in silence as the elf disappeared to the second floor. Varric could positively hear the wheels spinning in Isabela's head. _For people who walk in._ Arrogant and mysterious all at once.

"You really want to go with her, don't you?" Hawke also knew her pirate's precise thoughts.

"Don't you?" the Rivaini shot back, a smoldering pout daring the Champion to deny her. The Fereldan's cocky smile confessed her total agreement. She was rewarded with soft fingers enveloping the back of her neck, pulling her down to a ravishing mouth.

"You mean on the job? Or in the bath?" Zevran asked when the two women parted. Isabela's smirk widened, teeth flashing as she licked her lips.

"Both." The lovers easily replied.


	17. Act V:i The Theif

The steady drizzle that so often afflicted Antiva City created beautiful blooms and stagnant puddles. It also provided cloud cover that blocked the moon. Elani had smiled as soon as she stepped out into the misting darkness surrounding the inn. She wouldn't need her face smudge tonight. Great stuff but Maker it hurt to scrub off. It felt good to be clean after so long.

The black coach that had scooped up the thief and her partners moved almost silently over the cobbles before stopping at the crest of a hill. Below she could see an ordinary dock and storage district. Except one compound was larger and more heavily fortified than any warehouse needed to be.

"There," Ravenel opened the coach door for the three to step out, "The Crows have guards everywhere from here to the central building. If anyone sees you, kill them."

"That seems rather drastic," Aveline objected, pulling up a dark hood against the rain.

"Do you wish to leave this city alive? If you want to spare lives, don't let them see you." The assassin reiterated her instruction, absolute.

"Don't fret, Killer. Back in a pinch." Elani winked to Lady de Vici and stepped into the comfortable shadows along the desolate road. She felt the guardswoman follow immediately. That was a new experience for sure: a guard on her tail for protection rather than pursuit. She didn't hear the witch's feet yet. Glancing back she saw the assassin had caught Morrigan's arm for a final admonition in private.

"Careful, my lady, the Crows would love nothing so much as a plaything of your beauty." Ravenel spoke very quietly, too low for anyone other than her audience (and an elf) to hear.

"You forget, de Vici, 'tis dangerous to toy with me." The answer was just as quiet. Elani hadn't heard much from the apostate so she couldn't tell if the trace of laughter in her reply was teasing or threat. It seemed dangerous but then so did everything else about the witch.

"I'll not forget," the Antivan's chuckle was definitely pleased, "And if I do, I look forward to you _reminding_ me."

The secret exchange of mysterious comments ended and Morrigan's footsteps swiftly caught up to the others. The warrior and mage moved obediently in the wake of silence behind Elani, mirroring her every step and freezing at a gesture. She got the unmistakable feeling that these two were very practiced at following a leader into danger.

"Idiot, stop scratching. It'll get worse." A voice from around the corner rang out, laughing. All three women stopped and slid deeper into the shadows.

"Damn that slattern!" the reply was loud and angry. Two of the Crow guards on patrol. They came into view; one alert and scanning the area, the other cursing in pain and chafing at his breeches.

"What did you expect for a handful of bits?" The attentive one shook his head as they walked past, oblivious to the distorted edges in the darkness.

"It'll cost me double once I get down to a healer!" Itchy's moan faded as they traveled further away.

Elani watched until the dim silhouettes vanished around the far corner and let out a breath. She headed around the edge of the building and walked straight into the hard metal of a standing guard. _Bollocks! Patrols AND posts?_ Like a spooked cat instinct drove her straight up, grabbing the startled man's shoulders she launched herself overhead. Her boot caught his head as she grabbed the edge of the wall and hoisted herself to the top, turning back just in time to see a quiet magic spell drop the man to sleep.

"Do you think, technically, that he saw us?" Aveline eyed the unconscious guard, hand resting indecisively on her sword.

"'Tis most unlikely, unless he can identify a thief by the underside of her boot." Morrigan shook her head and looked up to find their ally peering down at them. There was a definite smirk on the witch's lips.

"One startled guard and you start climbing walls? He wasn't even turned around!" The warrior laughed as Elani began to slide back down.

"I'm the infiltration, remember? You two are muscle," the elf pointed out, dropping back to the ground. She caught an exchange of frowns between the two fighters, clearly not caring to be lumped together.

"She moves swiftly for the weight she's carrying. Do you truly need all of that?" Morrigan eyed Elani's assorted belt pouches and the massive satchel on her back.

"I don't go anywhere without my shit." The thief nodded, touching the straps for reassurance.

"She really doesn't." Aveline confirmed, a weary annoyance in her tone recalling the Qunari locked storage and fleeing with half an army on their heels.

They wound their way through the alleys and shadows surrounding the central building of the Archive, staying close to the massive fortifications, weaving between storehouses and archways. From her momentary perch atop the wall Elani had spied precisely what she needed and no matter how many turns they made, she kept the position burned in her mind.

"We need to go left." Morrigan protested when the elf headed in the exact opposite direction at a fork.

"No, we don't." Elani headed stubbornly down the right alley. It was close here somewhere. She couldn't see over the wall but she could tell from the shadows that she was near the spot.

"She can be a bit odd about directions." Aveline sympathized with the witch's confusion. There was that tone again, the one that had cursing and Qunari boots. There _had_ been a reason for all that insanity, as the redhead would soon understand.

"But the other path leads to the entrance," Morrigan argued; full of the authority of a person who'd actually been to the destination before.

"That's not my way in." The elf grinned as she sprang up the wall, clambering to the top with ease. Before her, closer than ever, rose the hulking mass of the Archive, its central dome looming like a sleeping giant. Reaching into the heavy pack on her shoulders Elani pulled out her prized possession. It was retrofitted to the point of being barely recognizable as a crossbow, clearly ruined for ever doing anything so mundane as shooting people. _But still not as fancy as that gorgeous number Varric was fondling. Wonder if he could teach me . . ._ The elf shook away her drooling thoughts.

"What in the Maker's name is that?" Aveline backed up to get a better view of the thief high above and the weapon she wielded.

"My way in." Elani locked in the grappling hook and wound the spring. She'd worried that the Archive was too far away from any of the walls and she'd be forced to cross the courtyard – meaning way more bodies and noise – but the building was pressed tight to its own fortifications here where the city met mountain. The hook shot out, dragging down the smooth dome but catching in a stone drain with a satisfying clink.

"Told you," She grinned down at the redhead as she grabbed her line and stashed the bow, "I really like my shit."

* * *

_Not far away . . ._

Zevran traded a Knight of Sacrifice and received an Angel of Temerity. The lower floor of the inn was empty now, even the keeper having gone to bed. The guttering candles were barely enough light for cards but neither he nor Varric could think of anything else to pass the time.

"How are they faring, do you think?" the Antivan wondered as he arranged his cards, a hand with nothing more than two Serpents. Winning this would take skill.

"Assuming they haven't been caught by Crows and strung up by their own guts? Probably pretty well." Varric shrugged, the laughing sarcasm concealing any of his own concerns.

"I thought it most curious that Lady de Vici insisted on escorting them in her coach. It puts her closer to risk." Zevran swapped a Dagger and got a Song.

"Yeah, but she's pretty invested in all this business. If any of those three get caught the fingers will come pointing back at her pretty quick. I think she's protecting her own interests." The dwarf had a tendency to hum beneath his breath when he had a good hand. Or he was enjoying himself. Or he'd had enough whiskey. Right now it could be all three.

"Ah. That is more insightful than my own suspicions. I simply thought she wished to accompany our lovely apostate." Zevran smirked, recalling the predatory expression that crossed the famed assassin's eyes when she thought no one saw. He'd noticed it first when Morrigan's name came up in conversation, then he caught it each time the violet color darkened as her gaze fell on the witch.

"Could be that too." Varric chuckled and refilled his mug. He hadn't exchanged or shuffled any of his cards for some time. He was biding his time.

"Speaking of beautiful women, where is the delightful Captain Isabela?" Zevran reached for the deck again. Another Angel, toss the Song.

"She dragged Hawke out of here not long after the others left. Heard her growling something about Captain Man Hands and dock-blocking. I'm guessing they're occupied." The dwarf grinned as only a man can after witnessing countless repetitions of the same scene. Most of the Hanged Man knew what it meant when the feared Queen of the Eastern Seas grabbed the Champion's arm and hauled her away.

"That sounds fairly typical of our exotic beauty," Zevran drew another Song, "Actually, perhaps it does not."

"Why not?" Varric took a slug of his whiskey, the hints of a smug grin hidden behind his cup.

"Because I cannot hear them at all." The former Crow pointed out the ambient silence, completely absent of obscene sounds or shouted profanity. His next card was the Angel of Death and he grinned as he revealed his hand. With that game ending card he finished with Three Angels and Two Serpents.

"Full house, not bad," the dwarf nodded appreciatively but his hand shot out to stop the collection of winnings, "But not enough against Four Daggers."

"Once more your sleight of hand is swifter than my gambling prowess." Zevran groaned and tossed his cards onto the table. He knew for a fact he'd discarded one of the Daggers but couldn't remember seeing the dwarf slip it from the pile.

"Another round?" Varric scraped the won coins to his side of the table.

"Why not? We have time to kill and no company but ourselves. I doubt you are interested in any of _my_ preferred games." The elf sighed, eyes drifting up the stairs longingly. Were Isabela and Hawke really capable of being so quiet? When he'd entertained them it was to a symphony of noises that haunted his dreams for weeks.

"Sorry, lover boy. Bianca's the only one for me." The dwarf shook his head, brushing a calloused hand tenderly along the wood of his most beloved.

"Very well. Deal. And this time I shall watch closely." Zevran leaned forward. If he couldn't stop the small rogue from cheating perhaps he could at least pick up a few tricks.

* * *

A rare breed of basilisk on Par Vollen produces a venom that can eat through flesh in seconds. Under the Qun everything has a place in the natural order. The Qunari quickly discovered that this liquid had a place in their own purposes. Specifically, the purposes of devouring an enemy's armor and dissolving them into puddles of sizzling pain. At lower concentrations however, between burning skin and melting metal, lay the real gift.

Elani uncorked the diamond flask carefully. It had cost a fortune but she hadn't actually paid, so, no complaints. She dribbled the venom in a careful spiral over a window in the Archive dome. The glass bubbled, hissed, buckled and warped, belching off steam and vapors that the elf quickly covered her face to avoid. Maker only knew what the stuff did in your lungs. The window vanished in a matter of minutes, without sound or trace. The only evidence was the noxious cloud making its way into the sky.

"Victory is in the Qun." The thief chuckled to herself and leaned into the opening, studying the shadows below.

There was no movement. One of the great things about trap systems was that they tended to cut down on live security. Once she was certain no guards inhabited either floor of the library she lowered her line and slithered down. She paused halfway down and pulled out the signal lantern Isabela had appropriated (stolen) and Morrigan had prepared (enchanted). Green light shot out and faded into the room below, changing total blackness to eerie shadows. She turned in every direction, slowly moving the veilfire beam like a weapon until bright green markings winked back to her out of the dark.

_Right, time to see what we're dealing with_. A quick rummage in one of many pouches and she brought out a fistful of dust. Looping the rope around her thigh Elani flipped upside down, spinning as she opened her fist and blew. The fog that spread around her caught any trace of light and blinked as it floated outward, inevitably drifting down. The glass dust momentarily filled the room with a shimmering cloud as it settled. Most alighted harmlessly on bookcases and the floor but some hung in the air, suspended in unnaturally thin, symmetrical lines. The trip wires twinkled up at Elani and looked, for all the world, like a spider's web glittering in morning dew. But they were all slung low to the floor, hoping to catch unwary feet or hands.

Righting herself on the rope Elani slid further down and kicked out, flipping to land on the bulk of the central bookshelves. There were two runes below, glowing and she could swear they were calling to be found but she leapt to the next case. She'd get the farthest records first and grab those last ones on her way out. Creeping and jumping from one set of shelves to the next – never so much as glancing at the floor – the thief made her way across the Archive. _Traps. Ooh, scary!_ She grinned as she reached the first bright glyph. It was high on the shelves and she didn't even slow as she grabbed it out. A bolt of feeling shot up her arm, not unpleasant but very compelling. It urged her to continue to the far corridor ahead. _Right. Neat trick but kind of figured that already._

The second marked record filled her hand with the need to go clear to the end of the hallway and Elani felt a rush of irritation. _How stupid do they think I am? They already drew me the bloody picture!_ She shoved the book in her satchel and studied the corridor at the edge of the shelves. Hallways could be more of a problem. Particularly when they were like this: dark, low and narrow. Not a bookcase or ledge in sight. She was going to have to put boots on the ground.

Stretching out along the top of the shelves she leaned forward, resting as if she might take a nap, albeit with her torso hanging off the edge. Fumbling with another pouch released a bag of marbles and she pulled it out, carefully opening the bag of glittering stones. She'd loved shooting marbles in the back alleys of Tevinter. It was one of the few pastimes that didn't care if you were elf, slave or magister's heir. She'd gotten pretty good, fleecing her fellow players until she won 2 silvers off a noble kid and the other slaves accused her of stealing. Took the coin and her marbles. Bastards.

She tossed the stones with gentle precision, each following only after the last had stopped. She rolled them carefully across every floor tile, waiting for the inevitable trap. The fifth marble triggered a hidden dart volley. The twelfth brought a mean looking spear stabbing out of the wall at the height of a man's heart or a dwarf's head. Elani knew how to be patient, she'd learned that long before any of her other skills. It took thirty-seven marbles total to touch every tile on the ground and they revealed four traps in the single hallway. These were clearly sick and paranoid people. _That one with the spinning blade? Damn!_ She traded her marbles for yet another mystery tool. A blow gun loaded with hummingbird's eggs, aimed to mark each of the trigger tiles. _Sensitive too, I guess._ Elani pulled back as one of the splattering eggs set off the darts again.

Reluctantly touching her toes to the floor, the thief carefully stepped over a glittering trip wire and danced down the corridor, never standing long on any one spot and avoiding the triggers completely. On finally reaching the room that was her goal the elf stopped dead on the threshold. Not from any trap or poisons, but the sheer number of shelves and ledgers. All identical looking. She numbly groped for the veilfire lantern again, waving the beam desperately to every corner. Her heart climbed higher and higher in her throat until finally she saw the wink of a green glyph calling back to the magical fire. _I take it back. That bossy mage's spells are Maker-send._

The record with the rune rested on a shelf at the opposite side of the room, snugly set into the wall. There were small mercies in life, after all. Elani pulled her crossbow once more and fit in a barbed spike, the kind that could punch through mortar and brick and hold fast. The wood ceiling of this room was even better. The elf caught the line and tugged to be sure the hook was fast, then swung across the open chamber, ricocheting off bookcases and kicking to her destination. She cursed when one rack caught her in the ribs but she spun away and caught hold the shelves she needed. Her toes found hold and she grabbed the marked book, an immediate feeling of elated success tingling up her arm. _Ooh, I like that one. Wonder if she could put it in my smalls?_

Kicking off the bookcase Elani sailed back across the room. She somersaulted off her line and landed in the corridor, one foot hovering dangerously over a bit of smashed egg before she caught her balance and raced away. There was adrenaline on any job but the best was what hammered in her ears after a victory. She laughed as she escaped the corridor and clambered up the closest shelves, racing over the tops to her finish.

Hitting the central bookcase she skidded to a halt, dropping over the side to reach for the final two scrolls. _Figures they'd have to be so far down_. She stretched further, body barely balanced against gravity as she reached for the final prizes. Toes catching the top of the bookcase, one hand supporting her on the shelves, Elani brushed the last of the green glyphs. A burst of feeling erupted up her fingers, ripping the air from her lungs. Excitement, anger, heat that pooled in her gut and swirled with a confusion of rage and desire; the yes-no war of instincts going berserk and the elf went completely numb. She fell off the bookshelf.

She hit the floor, hearing the sing of tripped wires snapping in every direction. She rolled away from the shooting arrows, cursing as they grazed her shoulder and leg. She stopped short of the poisoned blade that shot up from the floor and darted back when a second dropped from above. _Shit, shit shit!_ She leapt to her feet and lunged for the closest shelf, desperate to be away from the dangers of the floor. Her escape rope still dangled above, just a few bookcases away. Elani ran, ignoring the pain eating up her leg and numbing her arm.

There was movement above her. Footsteps and noise and now someone else was in the Archive. A guard on the second floor. The second floor wasn't booby-trapped. _And the only damn guard in the entire building would just have to be awake to hear this mother cluster?!_ Elani leapt from the bookcase, catching the rope with one fist and swinging wildly before she could grab on with her other hand and start climbing. The Crow was shouting and heading straight for her, sword glinting maliciously in his hands.

He didn't have to reach her; he could just cut her down. The thief looked below, seeing the glittering nest of tripwires winking back at her. _Climb. Maker, please, climb!_ Elani couldn't feel her injured arm anymore but the fingers were still clenching on command, dragging her up the rope but not fast enough. He was going to get there first. The sword was already swung back for the decisive slice.

The high-pitched shriek of something shattering pierced Elani's ears. She winced at the noise and instinctively covered her eyes as shards spilled from above. Through her fingers she could just make out a silhouette crashing through one of the dome windows, haloed in breaking moonlight and glittering glass. There were flashes of white and glinting metal and a heavy boot striking the Crow guard to the ground. Then the sighing whisper of a blade on flesh and gurgling, wet death. Elani shook the pieces of broken window from her hair, renewed strength driving her up the line. One guard meant more could come. The elf reached the second floor balustrade only to find her rescuer leaning on elbows against the railing.

"Took you long enough, Cuddles." Isabela's smile flashed in the growing moonlight, wicked as the shine of her daggers.

"You're something else, Captain." The thief let out a shaking breath, the tremble of her relief almost laughter.

"Don't I just know it. Let's go. I'd rather not be here when more bastards come charging in." The pirate straightened and sheathed her weapons.

"After you." Elani nodded to the space still open above her. Right now the sailor could probably climb faster than she could anyway. Maker, what was on those arrows?

"You just want a look at my ass." Isabela smirked but stepped off the railing and rose above the elf, quickly moving up the rope.

"A fair point. Is there anything about you that isn't amazing?" This time the elf truly was laughing as she followed.

"Her history with the Crows. Get a move on, both of you!" The command came from above. Elani could just make out Hawke's familiar tousled hair peering through the open window. The Champion reached down and pulled Isabela out. The rope began to move, pulled upwards faster than the elf could climb and she concentrated on making her aching arm hang on. She was dragged out of the empty frame in the dome and gently laid down to examine her injuries.

"Thank you. Really," Elani muttered before Hawke poured a potion over her throbbing shoulder. The tingling pain that had paralyzed her arm burst into a hysteria of agony before fading to numb. Her leg was treated as well and she cursed, biting her gloved hand to hold back any louder sound.

"Aw, don't go getting soft on me, Cuddles. We couldn't stand to miss the show. Besides, there's more fun ahead!" Isabela laughed and flicked a strand of hair away from the thief's face. Elani managed a weak chuckle in response. They had to get off this dome, away from the Archive and evade every Crow between here and the docks. It was crazy to think of it as fun. Thank the Maker they were all the same level of crazy.

* * *


	18. Act V:ii Words Unspoken

Varric had heard the roar of dragons, landslides in the Deep Roads and - on one unforgettable night – Isabela's orgy in the room next to his at the Hanged Man. None of those noises compared to the volume, intensity and sheer chaos of the six women triumphantly storming the inn. A cacophony of anger, laughter, pride and sarcasm overwhelmed him like a storm tide.

"What was it you said to the one scratching himself? I thought he'd wet his pants!" Hawke laughingly demanded as the main door suffered their entrance.

"I just told him I knew a cure." Isabela had even more swagger in her step, probably something to do with the blood on her corset and the Champion's arm around her waist.

"Someone owes me a drink." Elani scowled, inspecting the hasty bandages that were already soaking through on her shoulder and leg.

"You weren't supposed to come, Isabela." Aveline's jaw was clenched hard enough to chew through her own sword. It sounded like a complaint she'd made several times in the last few hours.

"One way or another, Big Girl, I'm always going to come." The sailor's wink accompanied her grip subtly pulling Hawke closer, guiding the Champion's hand higher to rest against her cleavage.

"You could've been recognized!" The guardswoman's anger grew louder, refusing to be baited by the vulgar twist of meaning.

"She is correct," Morrigan's dangerous voice didn't have to be loud to cut through the noise like a dagger, "Our purpose was to _avoid_ letting the Crows see anyone familiar. You were supposed to wait in the carriage."

"And you were supposed to be careful!" Lady de Vici matched the accusation with perfectly equal indignation.

"You were spying on us." The witch and assassin were squaring off once again, almost precisely as they had at their first meeting. Varric could swear he felt the tingling threat of magic once more.

"I was covering you! And you're welcome!" The Antivan woman's hands were clenched tight into fists rather than twitching for weapons. That was probably a good sign.

"Maker's Balls, what did you put on these things, Hawke?" Elani had planted her foot on a bench, pulling the wrapping from her injured calf.

"Leave it alone, sweets." Isabela warned as she headed to the vacant bar and rummaged for a full bottle. Hawke caught Varric's eye, shrugging helplessly as the conversations and arguments wound around each other in a dizzying spin of laughter and rage. This must've been building their whole way back from the Archive.

"Damn stupid runes." The thief frowned but obeyed the command, grabbing a mug as soon as the pirate found an adequate supply of liquor.

"They got you what you needed," Morrigan snapped at Elani before turning attention back to her true target, "We were handling the Crow guards!"

"Which? The ones with pikes coming at you or the half dozen you were all stuck fighting? Andraste's Mercies! If I hadn't taken out that archer –," the assassin was every bit as stubborn and out for blood.

"The rest of the guards wouldn't have known to come after us!" Aveline took up Morrigan's argument, the unlikeliest set of allies Varric had ever seen.

"Those bloody marks nearly botched everything! What were you thinking?" Elani was bristling at the apostate's obvious dismissal.

"She's right. If we hadn't been there the whole job would've been bollocksed." Isabela took the thief's side, literally sitting down beside her and tugging at Hawke to follow. The Champion only reluctantly complied, the line of her mouth conveying that she was growing tired of this noise. She turned her face into the Rivaini's thick raven locks, trying to distract her lover from the arguments by finding the spot on her ear that made Isabela's breath catch.

"You're all being dramatic and wearisome," Morrigan rubbed at a pain between her eyes and refocused, "And _you_ are far too presumptuous, de Vici."

The heat of that withering accusation somehow went beyond the conflict at hand. The tempered rage in her words had the flavor of thoughts left simmering for hours. The apostate's golden eyes flashed fire, daring the other woman to match her on this entirely different level of argument.

"I saved your life." Ravenel's own glare stabbed back, voice low and cheeks flushing with anger. Or what Varric had to assume was anger.

"You almost got me killed!" The thief shot to her feet, slamming her drink down. The sound of the iron tankard groaning in distress joined with the crack of the wood beneath. She was done being ignored.

"Enough!" Hawke got to her feet as well, blocking Elani and shouldering her way in between the witch and assassin, "We got the contracts. We escaped the Crows. Anyone who saw us is bleeding out and trying to make peace with the Maker. Aveline, stop yelling at Isabela because you know all it does is give me the headache. Morrigan, the Lady helped us. She took out an archer we didn't even know was there and the alerted guards were _always_ going to be a problem so will you all shut it?!"

Hawke was fun loving, irreverent, sarcastic and impulsive. She was more inclined to break law then lay it down. But when the Champion of Kirkwall stood up and issued orders, it was like hearing the voice of the Maker, a general, your mother and a Rage demon all rolled into one. Varric wished he could capture that sound and include it in every copy of his book. It was a magic of its own.

"Sorry, Hawke." Aveline sighed, knowing her friend was right once more. Neither Morrigan nor de Vici said anything but they deliberately stepped back, continuing their private argument in silent stares.

"Thank you," the Champion tilted her head, grateful for everyone's cooperation, "Now; I do want to know what happened, Elani. One second you were almost done with the job and the next there were traps and alarms going off. Did you fall?"

"Yes, I fell," the thief snapped irritably, "But it wasn't my fault. Those damn runes had stuff in 'em. Feelings and shit. The first couple were fine but what was the story with those last two?"

"Veilfire runes are an ancient and complex magic. 'Tis most likely you confused the meaning." Morrigan rolled her eyes, defensive of her work.

"I got confused alright," Elani's bark of laughter had gravel underneath, "I couldn't tell if I wanted to run to the nearest brothel to spend all my coin or just to burn it down!"

"What?" The dark storm that had consumed Lady de Vici's features broke apart, hints of surprise glinting brightly through the clouds.

"An impulse I'm sure you and the sea slattern share." The apostate rolled her eyes before the elf could continue. If she was just a hint rushed in speaking it wasn't enough for anyone else to notice. Anyone other than Varric.

"Captain Sea Slattern, thank you. Admiral once I'm back with my fleet." Isabela had risen and draped an arm around Hawke. She had been focused on teasing the Champion but now she was watching the tension that ate its way up Morrigan's shoulders and neck. There was something fascinating to the pulse of the tendons near the witch's throat. On anyone else it would've looked a bit like panic.

"Look, I don't know your ancient magics and such but I know what I felt. I can still feel it! Hauling these blighted things around," Elani reached into her satchel and yanked out both scrolls and tossed them onto the table, "There should be hazard pay for that sort of shit! I bruised my fists punching guards too hard and someone's buying me a fresh set of underpants 'cause these are ruined."

"This matter may deserve examination." Ravenel's arched brow dared anyone to argue, her eyes locked on the discarded prizes. No one else cared. No one other than Varric.

"I just want it to stop. Can't decide if I need to kiss someone or kick 'em in the fork." The thief unhooked her lantern and held it out for any willing taker. Lady de Vici took the veilfire and, for only the briefest second, her glance darted to Morrigan. The apostate was unreadable, observing the conversation and events with complete apathy. When the assassin opened the door of the lamp there was a hint of the magical light within for only a second. Then it was gone completely, the veilfire extinguished.

Elani breathed a deep sigh of relief, the confused tensions finally vacating her body. De Vici's eyes closed a little longer than necessary, mouth pressed into a thin line to control any angered outbursts. Isabela turned to whisper something tempting and scandalous to her Champion while Aveline looked on with irritated affection for both. No one saw Morrigan's hand withdrawing from a tiny magical gesture. No one but Varric.

* * *

Warden Amell was used to eyes trying to pick her apart every time she entered a room. From the day she joined the Circle she learned that mages were always under scrutiny. Templars had watched them all as though a sneeze might turn them into abominations. Ordinary people lost the ability to blink when robes and staffs swam into sight. Donning Grey Warden armor had let her be invisible for a brief moment of her life but then it made her stand out all the more. Now it felt like the battlemage gear and its Griffon crest might as well have been a herald running in advance shouting 'Hero,' 'Hero,' 'Hero!'

All that attention was good training for the incisive glances and open stares she'd been enduring these past few days in the Grand Cathedral. Each time she entered the Divine's throne room she could feel eyes snaking over her; questions and assumptions tugging at lips and whispered in ears. None of them, however, had the concentrated intensity of the gazes she found waiting for her when Alistair said their allies were gathered.

Even as she explained the security issues to the six people they'd chosen for help, Solona could swear she was being dissected one layer at a time. Years of practice let her ignore the attention. Years with Leliana had taught her to look back.

"I sent word to Skyhold yesterday, more of our allies will be arriving tomorrow." Josephine watched the Warden the way she might study a famed piece of art: weighing its value and reputation against meaning and beauty.

"They'll either button down your safety problems or add more of their own. Keep Sera away from – well, keep Sera away from everyone," Cullen advised, some instance of chagrined memory filling his eyes and momentarily removing the awkwardness.

Awkward. There really was no other word for how the Commander tended to look at the Hero. As though he couldn't quite believe she was real, or the situation they were in. Solona could hardly blame him. She wasn't entirely comfortable asking a man who'd once deeply desired her to help protect her chosen love. Leliana had confessed that she and Cullen seldom saw eye-to-eye during their time in the Inquisition but they'd gradually become friends. He would help for her sake. Solona just wondered if the two wouldn't have united more easily without the specter of herself in-between.

"My people are scattered in the crowds but I cannot get any ears among the servants." Briala pursed her lips and studied the Warden with playful suspicion. Only a handful of people knew the extent of the Hero and Divine's relationship, the rest had only gossip and history. Everyone playing the Orlesian Game was eager to pry for fact.

"You won't. Chantry servants are the most loyal and disciplined in all Thedas. They serve the Maker." Prince Sebastien butted in, disgusted that the elf would even think of corrupting the faithful.

He and Giselle had a shared expression of distrust when they looked on Warden Amell. She was a hero, The Hero, even; but she could still be the downfall of a Divine during the Chantry's time of need. Neither of them would be sorry if the Calling happened to take her far away. While Briala and her spies would love to find some proof of Divine Victoria's indiscretions, these two would die to prevent it.

"They serve a woman. A woman who has become Most Holy but retains even more mystery than Andraste herself. There can be secrets anywhere." The elf spymaster easily corrected the prince, watching for the slightest hint of reaction from Solona. The Warden kept her face a perfect mask, unreadable as the expressions at an Orlesian party.

"Right now the secrets we're after involve hidden weapons and fanatic conspiracies. Do try to focus." Alistair rolled his eyes, far too Fereldan for these intrigues. He was a king but not a politician. He was a friend and, in this room, he was the only one smiling at the mage.

"Ali- His Majesty is right," Solona had to keep her tongue in the present, "You can resume your Game when this ceremony ends and we have a living Divine for you to play with. She's far more clever when she's breathing."

"There are many Chevaliers present in the courtyard. They can be relied upon for service but they fight best when they know whom they serve." Ser Michel's scrutiny was the most honest. He didn't know what to make of the mage in Grey Warden armor standing before them. Was she a commander of battle sensing danger? A friend being loyal? A worshiper defending the Chantry? A lover protecting her own? He could not seem to decide what he saw in the Hero, perhaps because all could be true.

"They serve the Maker by protecting His chosen Divine, and they serve Thedas by keeping the Chantry safe. That should be enough for any knight of honor." Mother Giselle knew exactly how to silence the suspicious man.

It was amazing that this group balanced itself perfectly, a miniature version of all Orlais in a single room. No one party would ever rise to power because Leliana stayed in the middle, spinning them around herself in their opinions and machinations. Each would fight to hold the card of the Divine in their hand and none would allow the rest such advantage. Thus, they bickered and maneuvered against one another, none realizing they were exactly where the Most Holy wanted them to be. Bard to sister to spymaster to Divine; Leliana had never stopped playing the Game.

"Very well, if there are no further questions; the Chant will begin shortly." Solona saw eyes with hundreds of queries blinking back at her but they all remained silent. The allies filed from the room, stripping away the pressure and attention until Solona could relax against a table and finally draw a full breath.

"They can be quite overwhelming." The laughing voice was hesitant but still melodious. The Warden turned and found Josephine lingering behind after the rest departed.

"Like mabaris fighting for a bone. Less blood but a lot more teeth." Solona shook her head, vaguely aware that she didn't have to raise her guard as much with the Antivan.

"Do not let them disturb you. Gossip is the national pastime and you? You are the main course alongside Leliana." Ambassador Montilyet settled beside the Hero, mimicking her posture of rest against the table edge. If she was trying to make the mage comfortable, it was working. Any mention of the redhead and she seemed to rise like a volcano between Solona's thoughts. She pictured the stunning woman as she had been days before, twisting away from her grasp with a laugh and reminder that they had to dress for the first ceremonies.

"Leliana is the more tempting dish. The finest I've ever tasted, anyway. I said that out loud, didn't I?" The Warden bit her tongue, realizing the words had spilled out before she could stop them. Apparently, she was feeling a little too much at ease.

"Flaming ashes! I'm sorry, Ambassador, I really shouldn't have -!" the Hero began her apology, seeing the crimson flush that had rushed over the Antivan noble and wishing she had a spell for reversing time. Leliana had told her endless stories about Josephine, she should've known better!

"Do not apologize," the Ambassador laughed, waving away the proffered regrets, eyes warm with approval, "You truly are exactly the sort of woman I would imagine for Leliana."

"Really? Imagined that a lot did you?" Solona relaxed back, thoughts rapidly locking into entirely new patterns of assumption. The bard's stories hadn't tried to hide that she had a soft spot for the young Antivan she met in Orlais. The Warden had never stopped to wonder what Josephine was thinking all that time.

"I – No! I merely -," the blush got darker and viridian eyes drifted away, "Leliana mentored me when I was young in Orlais. She taught me so much. It was impossible not to love her but she was always the tutor to be worshiped, never an equal to be wooed."

"She's very fond of you, Josie," the Warden knew she was crossing into personal territory, using the pet name but it brought the Ambassador's eyes up once more, "She told me stories. Mostly when I could coax her to tell me of her bardic adventures; your name was the only bright spot. She said you were 'an Antivan who will change Orlais far more by her innocence than her wiles.' I think you're the only part of that past she doesn't regret."

"I wish," Josephine paused, gaze held by the Hero but still so far away, "I wish that I were not so innocent then. That I might have seen Marjolaine's designs on Leliana in time to prevent her succumbing to the woman's seductions and treachery. In that time? I might have fallen in love with her but her heart was already taken."

"And now?" Solona wasn't sure she'd ever met anyone else who could speak of the bard with such sincere affection. The Antivan woman was too kind and warm to be angry towards. Even if she confessed an undying love for her old friend and continued ally, the Warden knew she couldn't be jealous.

"No," Josephine shook her head with absolute certainty, lips curving to smile once more, "Her heart is where it belongs and mine is as well."

"Just when I was thinking of a threesome." Solona sighed tragically, the sarcasm bleeding into irony when she remembered just how impossible that idea was. A scoffing noise jerked her back from her own internal complaints. The Antivan diplomat was laughing at her.

"She told me of you as well, you know. You are very much as she describes." The Ambassador's smile began to tease at secrets.

"What did she say? And when?!" The Hero demanded.

"When she came to serve Divine Justinia in Orlais I was the Antivan ambassador. We naturally overlapped. I even orchestrated her welcome party. When its entertainments grew dull we slipped away. She told me _many_ stories. And when I doubted her she had proof." Josephine's eyes glittered with mischievous delight.

"Oh Maker, was that the night with the Chantry board and the –?" Solona could feel herself blushing already.

"Small clothes. Indeed. I did not think Fereldans were so given to lacy garments." The woman was giggling now, enjoying the Hero's discomfort.

"I'm not! But Leliana is. You know how persuasive she can be." The Warden groaned, burying her face in one hand. Those underpants had been the redhead's favorite. How drunk was she that she pinned them up?

"Indeed I do. I went back the next morning to take them down but they'd already been stolen. Leliana was not pleased – I take it they were quite a prized souvenir? I must be certain to buy another set for you." Josephine's shoulder nudged the Hero for response.

"Please don't." Solona implored, shaking her head as she recalled the feral gleam that came into her bard's eyes when she found her lover adorned in that bit of Orlesian indulgence. At this point lacy small clothes would only torture them both. Those days were past. What lay ahead was still unknown.

The Ambassador must've felt the shift of emotion, history fading into the present.

"You make her happy, Warden. You keep her safe," Josephine's gesture encompassed the room and the meeting that had just finished, "There is nothing more I could wish for my friend."

"I'd wish a lot less eyes on us but the Maker stopped performing miracles a dozen centuries ago." The Hero straightened from the table, facing the door that she knew led to hundreds of eyes waiting to scrutinize her every breath. Scores of people just dying to turn her love into political fodder.

"Be patient. What I know best about Leliana is that she never stops fighting for what she wants. And she always has a plan." Josephine joined her at the ominous threshold, smile full of confidence and support.

"That she does." Warden Amell chuckled, wondering just how shocked the Ambassador would be if she knew what this plan entailed.

* * *

Isabela paused at the top of the main yard. From this height she could see to the farthest distance of the horizon and the endless lapping waves beckoning. Clinging to the mast with one hand she leaned out into the whipping winds that billowed the sails. Sea salt and gull droppings and wet wood filled her nostrils, the breeze promising clear skies and perfect speed. This was freedom. She'd known it from the moment she set eyes on the first ship she wanted and nothing had stopped her since. A few delays and bumps along the way, certainly, but no actual obstacles that could resist the wink of her eye or edge of her blades.

"Brand! Keep her steady! We've got leeward wind and I'm not bloody letting you steer if you can't handle the damn speed!" The Captain hollered to her first mate, receiving a one finger salute in reply. She laughed as she slid down the stays, catching a footrope and swinging out onto a lower yard arm.

"Pete, ease off on those lines! The sails are tighter than your mother's ass!" Isabela dropped the command as she leapt past him and caught the foremast rigging. She loved being above deck, hands on the ropes, feeling the beating pulse of her ship as it bucked and flew over the crashing waters. Like a soldier grooming his horse and murmuring affections, she ran her fingers over the polished wood and soaked knots, muttering fond obscenities.

"Maker's bloody balls, someone's been fucking in the ratlines again. I told them to do their whoring in the brothels!" The Rivaini shook her head but couldn't quite frown, too amused at the thought of some poor tart being dragged out for business on these chafing rungs. She'd get some creative rope burn, that was for sure. Not far below her she spotted Varric talking to the elf thief, voices carrying up on the wind.

"Hawke was right, you do have a pretty nice piece. Single shot only, huh?" The dwarf was examining Elani's modified crossbow. He sounded like a master smith grading an apprentice's work.

"It has to get me onto a roof, not kill half an army. But this! This is just beautiful." The elf was similarly studying Varric's far more complicated weapon. She didn't even bother to hide the naked want in her voice as she ran her finger along the winching gears.

"Bianca is one of a kind." The archer agreed, pulling his beloved prize away from the rather intimate touch of another. He gave Elani her own crossbow back, unconsciously running a soothing hand over Bianca's stock.

"Why do you call her that?" The elf craned her neck to watch as the stunning weapon vanished behind Varric. Unheard above them, the captain laughed. Everyone always wanted to know about Bianca. Ever since finding out there was a real person behind the name, Isabela wasn't sure who she wanted to molest more: the woman or the weapon.

"Because Mirabelle was taken," Varric shrugged off the question with his usual evasiveness, "Why? What do you call yours?"

"Uhm," Elani paused, caught off guard by the question, "I never really named it. I guess I call it my shit."

"Maker's ass! Seriously? Why?" The dwarf's laughter carried clear past Isabela to startle a family of gulls nesting on the top yard.

"It's not like it was on purpose," the thief defended herself, chuckling as well, "I'd be out on jobs talking to myself and then I wasn't only talking to myself anymore. You know, 'shit, that was a great shot,' 'shit, I've got to get out of here,' 'did you see that? Shit!' It just sort of happened."

"Okay, kid. First thing we're going to work on is getting you a better imagination." Varric shook his head, Elani laughing as she was called away to another conversation.

Isabela smiled, balancing across a yard arm before flipping to catch a bow line and dropping to the deck. She landed just a few feet from Aveline and Hawke, the Champion back at her usual spot against the rail. _Maker's balls. I've got to get her to move about a bit more._ The seasick woman's grip kept leaving marks in the wood.

"How's dinner tasting, sweet thing?" The Captain smirked as she rested a hand on Hawke's back, laughter covering any real worry in her voice. She could feel muscles clenching beneath the Champion's armor, already weary from fighting for control.

"Just as bad the second day." The weak answer tried to laugh back but faded into a groan. Isabela's brow knit, ignoring Aveline's darted glare of disapproval. Her touch ran higher, feeling the sweat soaked strands of hair on the back of Hawke's neck. _Bloody ass. Why does this keep happening?_ The pirate bit her lower lip, wondering for the hundredth time how a woman as indomitably strong as the Champion ( _her_ Champion) could be brought low by a few waves.

"Try not to wear out those gorgeous lips of yours. I've got plans for them tomorrow." Isabela leaned close to tease, pleased by the choke of laughter her seduction managed to lure out. Hawke was never too sick to appreciate a bit of temptation.

"She's going to need rest, Isabela," Aveline scolded, protective as ever of her oldest friend.

"For what I have in mind? Damn right," the Rivaini grinned, enjoying the prude's mild disgust before she turned away. Catching a ratline and hauling herself back into the rigging the Captain paused, a flash of concern pulling her attention to the deck once more,

"Make sure she gets some water, will you, Big Girl?" She hated the way Aveline's eyes went from surprised to smug, laughingly tender with the knowledge that the slattern had a heart. Before the blighted guardswoman could say anything horribly sincere, Isabela vanished into the web of ropes and lines, cursing beneath her breath.

Aveline loved nothing so much as catching the Rivaini sailor in an admission of feelings. Squishy feelings. The ones that weren't just lust and laughter and bone melting sex. Which was stupid because those were the feelings that had gotten Hawke into Isabela's bed and she was damn sure Aveline knew that. She'd gone to great lengths to make _sure_ redheaded prig knew that. But no, the Big Girl had to be all insightful and poke around for the awkward, fumbled, hidden feelings that Isabela preferred to keep in private. They weren't secret, exactly, they were just . . . hers. They were for her and Hawke, alone, preferably naked and breathless. It suited them. It suited her, anyway. And it wasn't like Hawke was complaining.

"A beautiful view from this position." Zevran's voice greeted her from above. Looking up, she found the former Crow perched in one of her own favorite spots, where the ropes formed a nest around the mast just below the top sail. From this vantage you could see the entire horizon in every direction. Or, like Zevran, you could be looking straight down the Captain's cleavage.

"Ever the flatterer." Isabela laughed, hoisting herself onto the yard arm beside him and leaning back against the rough wood of the foremast. The southerly wind whipped her hair, her hat still resting on its hook in her cabin.

"How is it that the years have made you more radiant? For me, they only seem to add scars and take away lovers." Zevran sighed, accepting a kiss to the cheek in reward for his praise.

"Scars are sexy, my handsome artiste. As for lovers," Isabela's eyes drifted to the deck below them and then back to the elf with wickedness glinting in the amber color, "Wait 'til my Champion has her sea legs again. The three of us have some catching up to do."

"Ah, Isabela, you do tempt a man. I had never thought to hear you possessive of anything but your ship and reputation but there she is: _your_ Champion. Proof our Queen of the Eastern Seas has found her true dueling partner." The assassin's words danced over a lighthearted tone even as his eyes softened wistfully. Isabela swatted him, knocking the sentimental expression away. She was never one for nostalgia, regrets, melancholy or really, memories in general. The past could provide some fun stories and good fighting lessons; that was all she cared to keep.

"She's never been one to kick company out of bed," Isabela winked, then turned her affectionate gaze to the ignorant woman below, "Maker's Hairy Ass. She managed to turn me into the jealous one."

"Are you so certain?" Zevran didn't take his eyes off the pirate, studying her expression.

"Sweet cheeks, I could tell you stories that would burn your ears off. Trust me, Hawke has never had a problem sharing." Isabela met his scrutiny, smirking as she thought of a dozen different adventures that should probably be illegal. Come to think of it, that one in Nevarra probably was.

"Just because this Champion lets other lovers touch you does not mean she is not possessive. She owns a part of you no other person ever shall." The Antivan's arched eyebrow dared her to deny the fact. Isabela kept her smile in place, internally fuming that twice today she was being met with this insufferably superior expression. Aveline was bad enough but Zevran?!

"That's why she'll have no problem with my taking you to bed for a bit of toe curling. Which, I must say, sweets, would be so much more entertaining than this conversation." The Captain leaned forward and dragged a fingernail down the elf's throat, feeling his pulse speed up under her touch.

"Isabela, can you truthfully tell me there is nothing else that holds sway in your heart? No other for serah Hawke to be threatened by?" Zevran caught the hand and pushed it away, intent on his seriousness.

"Ass and Ashes, Zevran! Quit with the riddles. They're far too Antivan, even for you." The pirate groaned and pulled back, tugging a knee up to rest her chin.

"I do not think your Champion is sick because of the sea or any of its affects, my beautiful pirate queen. I have been watching. I think her discomfort far more," the assassin lingered over his exact turn of phrase, eyes delighting in Isabela's impatience, "Personal."

The Rivaini sailor started to laugh at the bizarre theory but the sound faded before reaching her lips. She looked back down at Hawke, bent over the railing and miserable. Every single time they set sail. Always for the first day as Isabela slid back into her role at sea: not just a swaggering raider but a true Captain. But on the second morning, waking up snugly enveloped in dark skinned arms and exotic spices, the sickness would pass. It couldn't be that simple. Could it?

"Andraste's holy tits." The pirate shook her head, realizing just how right Zevran could be.

"You two are quite the pair, Isabela. I should not like anything to come between you," the elf grinned and turned to climb back down the rigging, "Unless of course, I am invited."


	19. Act V:iii Listening

Varric found that polishing Bianca served two purposes. One: it made her gleam beautifully and feel smooth as silk in his calloused hands. Two: everyone thought he was oblivious to what was going on around him. That was a terribly dangerous assumption and one that he used to his advantage. From this vantage point he could observe Zevran coming down from some mast rigging, Aveline comforting the seasick Hawke, Morrigan pulling her still-life statue imitation near the stern, and Lady de Vici trying to persuade Elani about something. The assassin and thief seemed the most interesting subject for his attention.

"If I can start work on the record now I could have most of it translated by the time we get to Val Royeaux." The Antivan woman was trying to reason calmly, the strain in her voice suggesting that all she truly wanted to do was throttle the elf.

"What, so you can cut out the middle man? Not a chance, Killer. I'm getting paid for this job and I haven't seen a lick of coin yet." Elani shook her head, both hands tightening around the strap on her satchel of prizes.

"I'm not interested in coin, thief. I simply want to know what the record says." Ravenel sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose in a way that reminded Varric of Cassandra.

"It says your people got hired a few hundred years back. Probably gives the names of a bunch of dead folks and then a list of excuses for why they couldn't do the job. This is all ancient history!" The thief started to turn aside but de Vici cut her off, blocking her path.

"No, it isn't. That ledger is the only copy of ongoing research and I need to see how far it got." Ravenel dropped her voice so that no one else could hear. Varric slowed his polishing on Bianca's stock, needing to concentrate to pick up the distant words.

"Wait, you mean your lot were still working this one? Like dusting it off every so often to add a report on why no one had been killed yet?" Elani demanded in surprise, shrewd enough to drop her own volume to a whisper.

"It's an unfulfilled contract, that's a death sentence in the Crows! Why do you think we use a cypher? My mother was the last one to work on finding the target and I have no idea if she got any closer than the previous generations." The Antivan's explanation was rushed but sounded sincere.

"So you can what, track down the last of the kids and send them to the Maker to be one big happy family?" The elf's teasing betrayed her skepticism. The odds of the book actually tracing Andraste's descendants were astronomical. But that didn't matter so long as she was paid. Best to get her coin before any deciphering was done; people had a tendency to start renegotiating when the goods weren't what they wanted.

"If we can prove that her bloodline vanished, the last heirs dead, then the contract is null. It'd be one less reason for the Crows to want me killed." Ravenel corrected, sighing as she realized there would be no prying the record away from the stubborn thief.

 _Right. They already have enough of those, don't they, Lady?_ Varric chuckled to himself. The Crows were experts at killing their own kind. De Vici had been lucky so far but the dwarf was an experienced gambler, he knew luck like that never held. Not unless you were kissed by the Maker and blessed by Andraste herself, anyway.

"Aw, your life's just all warm fuzzies, isn't it? Look, I can't say what happens after we get to Val Royeaux but here's what I'm thinking we do," Elani threw an arm around the assassin, leaning close to conspire, "I hold onto the bits that get me paid. You hold onto the bits that get you paid. And neither of us gives nothing to nobody until we get -?"

"Paid." The Antivan slid out of the woman's grasp with an irritated roll of her eyes. Reason was obviously wasted here.

"Sharp as those daggers of yours, aren't you, Killer?" The elf laughed and skipped away.

Bianca was so polished that she hurt to look at in the sun. Varric pulled a tool from his belt and began working on her gears now, twisting them in echo to the ones spinning in his mind. That ledger held secrets the assassin didn't know, probably more than others were expecting. Did Nightingale know the de Vici's were so thorough about their work? Was she counting on their paranoid obsessions to hound Andraste's children out of the shadows of history? The Chantry obviously had, centuries ago when they decided to hire the famed killers. No wonder Lady de Vici had been so quick to catch on when they came to her with their proposal.

He didn't have very long to concentrate, the loud sound of Isabela's boots hitting the deck shook him from his thoughts. The Captain had been issuing orders from aloft since they put to sea, only touching down intermittently to keep the crew in line. She stalked to the bow, her sensual swagger issuing more challenge than usual. Varric noticed crewmen doing their best to become invisible, all remembering jobs that needed to be done below deck or high up in the rigging. They recognized this version of the Captain and what it might mean.

"Hawke!" Isabela grabbed the Champion and pulled her from the railing, shoving a flask into her hand, "Drink. Now."

The Fereldan was already dizzy and now the confusion was sure to make her head spin but she fumbled for the flask, obediently taking a long draft. Rivaini gripped the Champion's collar in her hand, helping her stay upright but also holding her in place.

"Isabela, what are -?!" Aveline started to interrupt but the captain held her ground.

"Not now, Big Girl. Again. Drink, Hawke." The loud order demanded immediate cooperation from both. Varric might've been imagining it but his heroic friend was starting to look a bit steadier on her feet. Was it the fluids or just Isabela's commanding presence?

"Empty." Hawke dropped the flask, letting it slide away. Conveniently, the rolling of the ship sent it straight for Varric and he lifted it to smell. Water.

"Now rinse and spit." Isabela pulled out a second flask, the one she kept in her boot. That one definitely wasn't water. The Tevinter liquor she kept for emergencies didn't even have a name. It barely had a flavor, just burn and fight. Hawke complied, wincing at the bite on her tongue and leaning to spit over the rail.

"Ah-ah-ah! No more of this head between your knees and hanging off the railing bilge. Rinse again." Rivaini tightened her grip, dragging the Champion to stay focused on her. It worked. Hawke took another pull from the flask without hesitation, spitting aside and no one caring that the liquor sizzled when it hit the deck.

"Mouth feel better? Clean?" Isabela's free hand caught the other woman's face, feeling the nod, "Good."

With no further warning she claimed the Champion, pulling her into a kiss deep enough it made Varric's lungs ache just watching. Aveline - who'd grown used to the wanton displays of impropriety that were always taking place between the rogues - went beet red. The dwarf had once seen Rivaini throw Hawke up against a bar and kiss her so hard the Fereldan's fingers split wood. This was like that time, just half the audience and twice as intense. Hawke reacted on instinct, wrapping both arms around the pirate to grab hold, a choked moan caught beneath ravishing lips. The Champion was the taller of the two but Isabela's hand in her hair had pulled her down, giving the Captain full advantage as her tongue expertly devoured the woman's mouth, plundering every taste and breath.

Isabela released her lover's lips with an obscenely wet sound and Varric didn't realize how tight his fingers had clenched until Bianca's trigger snapped beneath his hand. _Ancestor's asses, good thing she wasn't loaded!_ He shook himself from the seductive spell, determined to see what game Rivaini was playing. Hawke was panting for breath but the color had completely come back to her cheeks with extra to spare. The buck and roll of the waves couldn't penetrate the haze of want that Isabela had just masterfully created. Rivaini kept Hawke close, holding her inches from another kiss.

"I cannot believe you're ass-headed enough to be jealous of a ship." The Captain shook her head, laughing as she saw the Champion's confusion turn to chagrin. There wasn't going to be any attempt at denial.

"She's your first love, Bela. I hate having to share with her." Hawke muttered, trying to look away but the pirate's grip in her hair wouldn't allow it.

"You aren't!" Isabela protested, holding her gaze like shards of blue glass caught in honey, "Hawke, a ship is a ship. It's carved wood, taming sails, masts, power -,"

"Not helping." The Champion groaned, starting to pale once more.

Varric stifled his laugh. Rivaini could get a little caught up in her own love of the sea more easily than she thought. What had that Desire demon offered her? A two mast brigantine, square sailed? The dwarf eyed the rigging above him. _Check._ There'd been something about a stiff masthead too according to Hawke when she told him the story, both of them laughing so hard they were near tears. There had been a glint of gravity in her eyes though, the barest trace of worry when she repeated Caress's accusation. _Would your pirate queen stay if the open water beckoned?_ Fear could make anyone sick. Jealousy just made it worse.

"Maker's balls, sweet thing," Isabela cursed her own mistake, shaking the Champion away from any other thoughts, "Haven't you figured out I love you more than a damned ship? If it's that hard to believe I'll just set fire to the bloody thing right now and we can swim back to Orlais."

"I can't believe," Hawke shook her head, frown of doubt slowly giving way to her trademark smirk, "That you're saying things like that in broad daylight, sober and with an audience."

The Champion chuckled as relief flooded Isabela's face. She'd almost been worried. She leaned in and brushed a second kiss against Hawke, light and brief and sweet with promise.

"It's dawn, Hawke, not high noon. The only people watching are our friends and it's not like we've been keeping it a secret. I'm _never_ sober, not even now and I do love you. Enough to say the word now and again, I suppose," her voice was low and warm, full of a tenderness that wasn't meant for anyone else to hear; then her more brash and sultry tone returned, "Besides, if that's all it takes to get you fighting fit and ready for a tumble in my sheets I'll say it a hundred times over."

"You've got 98 to go." The Champion grinned and began to walk backward towards the stern, fingers catching the Captain's gloved hand and subtly drawing her along.

"I'm sure to get through those in less than a minute once you're naked." Isabela matched Hawke's predatory smile, letting herself get pulled. The two were tangled together before they even hit the stairs to the captain's cabin.

"Guess Brand has the deck," Varric muttered beneath his breath, chuckle giving way to the hum of Bianca's song.

* * *

"I swear if this gauntlet holds me any tighter I'm going to have to climb inside your armor!" Solace squirmed against the unbreakable grip that held her in place on the Inquisitor's charger.

"You want the rope instead?" Trevelyan challenged, half hoping the mage would say yes.

"No. Hard ass," Solace scowled and turned to the Seeker riding alongside, "She this rough with you too? Maker, what am I saying. You'd probably like it."

"Don't go taunting the Seeker, Solace. The last person that was this close to me for more than three seconds broke a window with his face," Eve warned, sharing a smile with Cassandra as they recalled the evening a few weeks past.

It had been an experiment in going out without any armor or Inquisition trappings. Just two women in a Redcliffe tavern. No one recognized them. Particularly not the handful of soldiers that tried to join their date. Eve was just about to hit the one that had invaded her space when he was yanked backwards and right into an oncoming fist. In that moment the Inquisitor remembered Sera once asking Cassandra if she'd ever punched a bear. The way that soldier sailed across the room and through the window? A bear wouldn't stand a chance.

"Romantic," Solace's sarcasm conveyed rolling eyes that Eve couldn't see, "So is this what the heroes of the Inquisition are doing these days? Chasing down innocent mages and giving them lap rides?"

"Ha! You're about as innocent as a whore with a bag of coins and a bloody knife." Trevelyan laughed, thinking of the stories the girl had told. Exaggerated perhaps, but complete fiction? Not even Varric had that kind of imagination. Not unless he teamed with Isabela.

"Fair enough but that wasn't the question. No more cult-crushing or sky-healing to do so you two big, scary warriors get stuck with errand duty?" Solace clarified, shifting to get away from the metal that kept scraping her back through wool.

"Guess you're more important than you thought, huh?" Eve teased, hoping eventually the message would get through the stubborn blonde's head, "Besides, I'd rather be out here dragging your skittish hide around then stuck in some Maker-Forsaken ball room."

"That reminds me; Josephine has said our attendance at the Chantry's Eve of the Divine festivities is nonnegotiable." Cassandra usually detested the frippery of Orlesian parties even more than the Inquisitor. When it came to the ceremonies and celebrations of the Chantry, however, she became less adverse. Trevelyan's opinion remained unchanged.

"Maker preserve me," Eve groaned, "Another night in full formal attire. What's the point of this one?"

"Officially it is to celebrate the imminent First Address. In practice it presents a last chance for clerics, mothers, nobles and the like to attempt to sway the Divine's first edicts." The Seeker's jaw twitched with distaste. Politics in the Chantry were unavoidable but they didn't have to be so blatant.

"Well, sod that," the Inquisitor snorted, "Solace, how many more times do you think you can run away?"

* * *

Morrigan had ignored the scene between the sea whore and her Champion. She stayed focused on the distant coastline, moving subtly aside when the tangled lovers banged into the railing on their blind quest for the stairs. How they made it up the steps was a mystery and she preferred it remain that way. There were more important things to think about right now than base impulses and desire. There was getting back to Val Royeaux, the work she had to finish with the Warden and Calling, her son, the dangers of Flemeth, dangers of all kinds.

"Your friends are most unusual." The smooth cadences of an Antivan accent spiked her heart rate, the one danger she was trying _not_ to think about having approached and paused a few feet away.

"The pirate is given to wild impulse and ridiculous displays of sexual power. I can only assume Kirkwall's Champion is similarly inclined." Morrigan shrugged, her eyes staying locked on the moving horizon.

"You have a delightful trick in your words, Lady Morrigan. Where you say 'similarly inclined' I clearly hear 'mentally damaged.' Is that a form of rare magic as well?" Ravenel's compliment ended in a tease of laughter, just enough that the witch felt the threat of a smile at her lips. She quashed it, mouth setting into a thin line. How did the damnable woman keep slipping past her guard?

"Can I help you with something, Lady de Vici?" The apostate turned the full force of her most icy glare on the assassin. It had frightened soldiers into surrender, stunned nobles into silence and - a favorite memory of hers – caused Alistair to walk into a tree. If the Antivan was intimidated she was a master at hiding her response. Only the subtle change of color in her eyes, shadows of nightshade, hinted at thoughts beneath her mask.

"I wish to apologize. I had hoped to not offend you after our first meeting but apparently I lose control of my manners in your presence. It is becoming habit to beg your forgiveness," Ravenel shook her head, a touch of irritation trembling beneath the polished words, "I do not regret following your party, nor aiding in the battle but you were correct: I should have announced my presence rather than keeping to shadow like a spy. Instinct is a hard thing to overcome."

Instinct. Morrigan reflected on the word even as she pondered the genteel apology. Instincts could be inborn gifts or trained reflexes. Her own intuition had saved her life many times. She might have been wrong once or twice but she'd never had reason to doubt the impulses beneath her thoughts. Why, then, did she question them now? Her natural tendencies were waging a war within and she did not know which side to support.

When the five of them were caught in that passageway, stuck between pikes and blades, the arrow whizzing within an inch of her cheek was Morrigan's first awareness of an archer on the wall. She'd turned, ready to fire a spell, only to find the man's body already plummeting to the ground, a dark silhouette crouched behind him with a bloodied dagger. She hadn't even needed to see the features beneath the shadowing cowl to know exactly who had come to their aid. She'd felt an instantaneous cascade of relief and irritation, one feeding directly into the other as pride and logic battled for control of her thoughts.

"Why did you follow us?" The witch couldn't offer pardon without fully understanding the assassin's motives. If she knew that much, perhaps she could finally decide whether to be angry or not.

"To keep you from harm, of course. Let me be very clear, my lady," Ravenel's determined gaze held Morrigan in a vise, "I did not follow the guardswoman or the thief. I did not worry for the pirate or her lover. I must even confess that from the moment my eyes fell on you at the Countess' ball, I have thought of no one else."

"You Antivans are foolishly bold," Morrigan clucked in disapproval, blaming irritation for the bloom of heat beneath her skin, "And quite rash. The effect of too much poetry and wine, I'm certain."

Once more, the assassin didn't so much as blink at her rejection. Rather, she moved closer, daring to invade the apostate's personal space. The witch felt her spine tighten, muscles clenching for a fight.

"You left your mark on me," Ravenel touched the lingering scar on her cheek, "And I daresay I did the same. Or should I simply ask our thief for more details about the effects of my kiss?"

"You startled me. 'Tis hardly ordinary to cast spells with another person so intimately in one's space." Morrigan's pride in her abilities was far stronger than any indignation over the events of the Archive. A kiss was a kiss but magic was her life. A small voice somewhere beneath the swell of her conceit argued that the assassin had probably divined as much.

"Then perhaps you need to practice?" de Vici's coy smile leaned in closer, "I, for one, would be more than happy to recreate the circumstance. It might help you perfect your technique."

The witch wasn't sure if she should laugh at the poorly veiled innuendo or be flattered by the persistence of the Antivan's charms. Even with the other woman's lips hovering inches away she couldn't find reason to feel angry, merely amused and a little unnerved by her own distracting interest in the temptation lingering so close. She recognized the scent of fragrance wafting close, an elegant smell of warmth and luxury. Her tongue twisted with the desire to dart across her lower lip, hungry for a familiar taste.

"My technique is quite excellent, thank you. You will have to take my word as I doubt there will be need for me to demonstrate further." Morrigan's aloof rebuttal should have closed the matter.

"Then you can help me perfect mine." Ravenel was anything but discouraged and had slid a hand to the witch's arm, subtly urging her closer without any force. The fingers were gently tracing up the apostate's skin, the barest whisper of a caress. She needed to not think about the softness that had enveloped her in the Archive, the thoroughly overwhelming sensation of the assassin's touch. She knew by the darkening violet beneath her gaze that the woman was reading her every thought.

Morrigan had never been one to deny her physical needs. Animals didn't repress their urges and she'd spent enough time in those forms to recognize the desires of her own. They were as much a part of nature as food and sleep. Admitting that she was attracted to the deadly noblewoman was no different than acknowledging a taste for berries. She couldn't understand why the simple urge to close the distance, to enjoy once more the pleasure she knew they both wanted, was being so thoroughly fought by every ounce of her need to survive.

"'Twould be most unwise." The witch turned away. She needed escape from those eyes so intently boring into her mind. The hand dropped from her arm and there was a disappointed sigh from the Antivan. Morrigan held back her own echo, confused by this madness.

"Beautiful women cannot always be wise. I will wait." De Vici crossed her arms and leaned against the railing, assuming a posture of relaxed patience as she scanned the distant sea, all hints of seduction leaving her manner.

The companionable silence was alluring. Morrigan, suspicious at first, gradually eased into a similar repose. So few people knew how to truly be alone with their thoughts. Humans had a constant need to pester one another when they were in company, determined to deny the fundamental isolation of life. Assassins had to know how to be quiet. _Just as they are masters at waiting_. Morrigan felt a knot of conflicted feeling tangle in her head, distracting her from the many other thoughts she knew she needed to be considering. There would be no peace or concentration in the space of her mind if she could not put this matter to rest.

Lady Ravenel de Vici had made her intentions painfully clear. That her attentions were both artful and intriguing only made them more tempting to entertain. Morrigan genuinely desired to feel the touch of her kiss once more, to test whether the feeling had been an accident of circumstance or if it could still be the same. If it were, however, she was not certain once would be enough. In her strange and adventurous life, the apostate had opportunity for an occasional liaison but none had felt so enticing. None had seemed so dangerous. _What makes this different?_ Morrigan studied the noblewoman from the corner of her eye. She was beautiful, but many women were. She was skilled, but then an assassin had to be. She was noble without pretension and well educated but not patronizing. In the two days since Morrigan had met Lady de Vici she'd been devious, sincere, seductive, arrogant, confrontational, logical, insulting, violent, witty, patient, brave . . . _Blast and_ _damnation!_ The apostate stopped the mental litany with a startled breath. _I like the woman._

Morrigan didn't like people. She gradually trusted the handful who'd proven themselves time and again to be worthy of respect. That wasn't the same as longing for their company. The Warden, Empress Celene, the Inquisitor; she could enjoy them all and be glad in their presence but she didn't sorrow when she left each behind. She'd grown up believing love a delusion, an unnecessary crutch for weak minds and a distraction from higher purpose. Kieran had ripped those ideas to shreds when he entered her life, filling her with warmth for absolutely no reason other than the wonder of his existence. She loved her son with the ferociousness of a dragon and found it made her more powerful than any other emotion that had ever held sway in her heart. The resulting disruption to her core beliefs warned her that to feel so strongly for anyone else would be suicide. No wonder her instincts whispered that this assassin was a threat.

"Who are you meeting in Val Royeaux?" Ravenel's voice gently penetrated the fragile train of thought Morrigan had begun to unwind.

"Pardon?" The witch cursed internally, frustrated to lose her concentration but also to have missed the question, appearing foolish.

"You keep gazing to the west, to Orlais. Someone is waiting for you. I simply wondered who." De Vici's words danced with teasing assumptions.

"You mean besides a Divine, Empress and Hero?" Morrigan allowed sarcasm to roll off her tongue, a familiar weapon that had served her a thousand times when she wished a conversation over.

"There is little warmth in your words when you speak of those three. Yet you look to the horizon with eager affection. There is yearning in your eyes. Someone that draws you like fire on a cold night." Ravenel had the mercy to not demand Morrigan's gaze as she spoke.

She focused on the same distant edge of the ocean they were sailing towards, granting the witch privacy within her thoughts. That the assassin had been observing her so intently wasn't a surprise. That she'd learned to discern the apostate's hidden emotions so effectively? That was a shock like lightning, standing the hairs on her neck and sending a tremor down her spine.

Morrigan stared at the water, pondering her answer. Normally the need to keep Kieran safe meant keeping him secret. Right now, however, she could feel his name already pressing on her tongue. Perhaps it was because he had just been in her thoughts? Betrayed already in her eyes? She had the irresistible urge to tell de Vici about him. It would show the assassin that she didn't know Morrigan as well as she so arrogantly assumed. It could mislead her into thinking there was someone else in the apostate's life. More than anything, it might persuade her to stop playing games and move to another target for her seductions, leaving the witch safe.

"'My son, Kieran. I left him with friends." It always sounded odd to use that word. She didn't think of herself as friendly and neither did anyone else. But there were no other words for the few people who'd proven trustworthy in her life and of these, the Fereldan Hero was chief. There was no one else she'd dare entrust with her child. Except, perhaps, the Inquisitor; Kieran was madly fond of that dragon slaying noble. The way he hung on her stories!

"Your smile is ever so innocent, speaking of him." Ravenel spoke quietly, as though too loud a word might shatter the rare expression. She'd turned her gaze back from the sea, studying this new look of sincerity that graced the apostate's features so beautifully.

"Nothing about me is ever innocent," Morrigan shook her head but couldn't find the will to frown, not with Kieran in mind, "But he could be. If I'm careful."

"Will you tell me about him?" de Vici inched closer, tilting to catch the corner of the witch's glance.

"Why do you want to know?" Morrigan turned sharply, suspicion flaring her eyes into embers.

"Because I find the thought of a smaller version of you wonderful," the assassin confessed, smiling at the very idea, "How old is he? Does he have any of your abilities? Your magic or wit? Please tell me he has your stunning eyes."

The apostate was too disciplined to ever betray shock but within the space of her own mind the thoughts were reeling. The Antivan was truly fascinated. Her entire face was alight with excitement and curiosity and - try as she might - Morrigan couldn't find a shred of malice or sarcasm in her tone. Rather than scaring the woman off, apparently Kieran had simply intrigued her more. Morrigan could only stare in confusion as more questions came at her,

"Does he care for Val Royeaux? Is he safe without you? What does he like to do? Tell me!" The warmth of a hand excitedly closing over her own startled the witch out of her silence. Ravenel's fingers squeezed, urging Morrigan to speak.

"'Tis strange that you are interested in children, given your family's experience." The answer wasn't what de Vici had expected. Truthfully, it wasn't what the apostate had intended to say but, in-between skepticism and surprise, honesty slipped out. The assassin had been bred for killing and groomed by slaying siblings. She lived under the edict to produce more of the same for the sake of a murderous business. How could she ever be excited at the thought of family?

The observation was harsh and Morrigan felt a scrape of guilt beneath her ribs as Ravenel winced and looked away. The noblewoman's gaze fell to the water, churning darkness more comfortable than the cheering day light. The grip holding the witch's hand released but didn't leave.

"My mother was different." De Vici offered only the minimal explanation, words so laced with sadness that Morrigan couldn't dare ask more. At another time, perhaps, there would be details to the story silently playing behind the assassin's eyes but it wasn't now. Mothers and sorrow pinched a nerve in the witch's own buried thoughts. She turned her hand to cradle the fingers touching her own.

"Kieran is ten. He looks much like me but no, he hasn't my eyes." The apostate warmed with relief as she saw a smile creep back across Ravenel's features. She ignored the fact that the warmth grew ever stronger as she told stories of her son to the other woman, watching her face lift and laugh once more. She denied that the sight of the Antivan's smile brought back a longing for her kiss.


	20. Act V:iv The Demons We Know

The Inner Circle of the Inquisition was its own dysfunctional family. Vivenne and Sera were the siblings constantly at odds, teasing and bickering and loving nothing so much as winding reactions out of one another. Cole was almost certainly the baby, the one everybody tried to protect. Cullen reminded Trevelyan of the sort of elder brother she might've wished for, a man far too nice to actually get his way. Josephine was definitely the favorite aunt, always appearing with the perfect word or gift to diffuse family tensions. It was now clear that Solas was the weird uncle; a distant figure that no one completely understood and should probably be grateful didn't visit.

The Inquisition _almost_ had two mommies between Leliana and Cassandra but it was Sister Nightingale who triumphed as matriarch; even the mighty Seeker listened to her. Blackwall was something of a foster child, still not entirely convinced he belonged and working to feel at home amongst the affectionate chaos. Dorian, well, he was a bit like that cousin a little too closely related for actual romance – an unfulfilled fantasy that was nonetheless far too entertaining to avoid. Varric was the closest thing the Inquisition had to a father figure; present from the very inception. Maker's Bones, there were times the poor dwarf even felt responsible for it being born! Like any good father he was constantly ready with gentle advice and a bed time story inappropriate for children.

There were step-siblings of course, borrowed from other families but just as important in the dynamics of Skyhold whenever they appeared. Morrigan and Hawke were chief among these. In-laws came in the intimidating form of the Hero Warden or merely the scandalous Isabela. That swaggering pirate was the woman who showed up at family holidays guaranteed to make a scene; drinking all the liquor, starting fights among ex-lovers and doing something obscene in the pantry. Trevelyan loved it when she visited.

Then there was Bull. The Iron Bull. The 'the' was apparently important. When Trevelyan thought of an equal, she didn't think of Cassandra because her love was so clearly her better in every possible way (strength, discipline, faith, breeding, that thing she did with her – never mind.) No, if Eve had a twin in the Inquisition it was Bull. He had her same irreverent, impulsive, hit-things-before-they-hit-back spirit. He was a leader like her, balancing the responsibility of the lives in his charge against the duties he carried and always threatening to give up both (when everyone knew they never could). They were even similar in romance, each coming from a long history of casual dalliances that were fun but meaningless and now trying to find their way in a true relationship. _Holy Andraste's Ass, please don't let Dorian and Cassandra ever hear some of our conversations._ Most importantly, Bull had left one family behind and forged another, just like Eve.

Also, they both really liked ridiculously big weapons.

This might make it easier to understand the rush of relief and excitement that gripped the Inquisitor when she spotted a distant cavalcade of riders, the lead figure bearing a pronounced set of horns. She kicked her horse into a gallop, quickly overtaking the procession of familiar faces.

"Bull, you great, horny bastard! Trying to steal my people again?" Trevelyan shouted as she rode up alongside the head of the line.

"Boss!" Iron Bull's craggy face split into a grin, "You the welcome wagon now or did the Divine think we couldn't find our ass with both hands?"

"Bloody warn me when you're going to race like that! I've got a mouthful of horsehair!" Solace interrupted, spitting out the taste.

"Leliana sent for you?" Cassandra caught up to them as well, honing in on the point of significance.

"Josephine actually, I guess they've found some idiots that think they can take pot shots during the enthronement. A Divine in trouble is the Maker's problem. But our redheaded spymaster? She's family." The Qunari shook his head, unconsciously echoing Eve's own thoughts.

"An what's this bit you're hauling?" Sera somehow managed to make her horse prance with the same evasive perkiness as her own feet. She reined closer up as they moved, examining the blonde that was still trying to pull mane hairs off her tongue.

"Pretty sure we have enough recruits for the Inquisition. No need to go kidnapping more." Bull had spotted Trevelyan's iron grip on the mage's waist. He knew a prisoner when he saw one, with or without chains.

"Special escort. The Divine specifically requested Mage Solace attend the ceremonies." Cassandra quickly supplied an answer that was true without even touching the real story. Perhaps she was a better liar than the Inquisitor thought? Or Varric had been rubbing off on her.

"Balls. She's just trying to pretty up the room. You seen some of those nobles? Faces like a smacked arse." Sera traded in secrets so she knew bullshit when she heard it. The Seeker shot her a quick warning glance but the elf just snorted and slipped back into the line. Fortunately, conversations amongst Eve's friends seldom stayed on one topic.

"This will be a delightful chance for some fine dining and atrocious gossip," Dorian's laughter was as polished as his perfectly coifed hair, "Wouldn't you pay coin to hear all the Revered Mothers' scandalized thoughts when a Qunari steps into the Grand Cathedral?"

"I'll pay coin to see the guards try to disarm him. Or any of you for that matter. Maker, is there anyone left at Skyhold?" Trevelyan cast her eyes back over the caravan and counted heads. One bushy black beard, one big floppy hat, one Tevinter fashion model, one kleptomanic and, best of all, six misfits called Chargers. It was like a miniature version of the entire Inquisition was on the road.

"Nah. We gave Cabot the keys. Figure he's locked up all the barrels and Harritt's guarding the swords," Bull shrugged, which was rather like watching a landslide in slow motion, "Relax, Boss. Plenty of good soldiers, pilgrims and mages still crawling the battlements."

"Oh, good. Nothing like soldiers and mages in close confines without any authority figure for days. I'd been meaning to remodel the north tower again." The Inquisitor clucked her tongue.

"That's the spirit! Perhaps we could incorporate a bit more color this time? They're doing marvelous things with all that veridium coming in from the plains." Dorian always knew exactly how to echo Eve's sarcasm. They once carried on an ironic dialogue for so long that Cole begged them to stop lying in their heads.

Thinking of the spirit distracted Eve from her planned retort. She dropped back through the line of riders to find the blonde sitting in the wagon Rocky was driving, the other Chargers riding alongside. Cole could handle a horse fine but he often got too distracted to stay on the road. _Does he know he's sitting on Rocky's explosives?_ Eve eyed the barrels and crates stacked haphazardly in the cart. She didn't even know if the stuff could hurt him.

"Just below the chin, quick, quick, left, right, skin as thin as paper . . . Twin towers, twice as tall and proud as ancestors, powder, vector, speed, boom! . . . Not a damn elixir, stop drinking all my medicines, bloody idiots never sober . . . Pretty, soft like a flower, delicate, warm to touch . . .  
'One last stream to cross,  
one last hill to wander,  
until I reach the love I'm longing to see.'"

The confusion of words running from Cole's mouth wasn't quite so surprising as understanding who he'd been listening in on. The Inquisitor could easily recognize the thoughts of Skinner, Stitches and Rocky. She wasn't precisely sure which of the Chargers might be contemplating the frailty of vegetation but she knew for a fact that the verse had come from _The Girl in Red Crossing._ It was difficult to imagine Krem thinking about Orlesian folk songs or Dalish even knowing one. That only left . . .

"Never talks, only watches, hard and jaded like the scars on rocks and sounds the same." Cole voiced Trevelyan's thought as her eyes fell to Grim. The mercenary looked up at her, unreadable as ever, he offered the barest dismissive grunt before looking away. The Inquisitor blinked, wondering just how much they didn't know about the Chargers' mystery man.

"Cole, are you sure you want to be going? There will be thousands of people at the Cathedral." Eve gently broke into the spirit's mental wandering, drawing him back to his own head.

"Yes," he answered the obvious question, pausing in that way he always did before realizing more was needed, "The Left Hand dropped the dagger, blossoming, singing once more. The song is simple, sweet, succor, from silence to symphony."

"You're happy for Leliana, then?" Trevelyan knew her lips were pulling into the lopsided smile that always resulted from talking with the naïve and rarely coherent blonde. He communicated so much more than any mortal ever could, but his own inability to understand confused every word.

"Yes. Happy. She is happy. Is happiness a disease? Passing from one to the next? Smiles spreading and infecting until there is no more sad." Cole was obsessed with sadness. That much Eve understood. A spirit of Compassion turned flesh ached for every pain that crossed his path. She considered correcting his idea of contagious happiness but thought of how seeing this company of friends had drawn out her own delight. Maybe he wasn't far off.

"No. Happiness is that brief moment you get when you manage to forget every other terrible thing that's going on in the world and sometimes everyone's doing it at once. Works best with alcohol." Solace's tongue was sharp and bitter as a poison blade.

The Inquisitor fought to keep her fist from clenching any tighter on the mage. She'd already have bruises, it wouldn't look right for her to show up with cracked ribs as well. So many people were harsh in trying to disabuse Cole of his notions of emotion and humanity and no one understood that he'd learn all of those horrible truths soon enough! The entire beauty of what he was came from the innocent perspective he turned on every aspect of their world.

"The Fade," Cole's eyes lit on Solace, she'd attracted his attention and soon she'd learn better, "Voices poking, pulling, peeling at a thought. Imaginary friends are spirits and spirits are demons and demons are a reason to be locked in a tower; fairytale princesses caught under curses but no happy ending, nothing but magic and magic without happiness is only an ending."

"What is he? Look, I don't know what you're trying–," the mage was squirming more than before now, but oddly pressing closer to the Inquisitor for safety rather than trying to run away.

"Still alive, thank the Maker, cursed by blood but touched by grace. Knots of riddles in locked boxes, trapped in dark rooms inside and out; close the clasp, keep the key, selfish secrets seeking safety."

"Stop!" Solace screamed loud enough that everyone jumped, including the Inquisitor.

"Don't take it personal, mate, a lady just needs a bit of privacy now and then." Krem rode up, gripping Cole's shoulder comfortingly. He also conveniently placed himself directly between the spirit and the distraught mage, casting a subtle question to the Inquisitor with the twitch of his brow.

"Ever the gallant knight, aren't you, Krem?" Eve tilted her head in a slight nod of approval, meant only for the Vint warrior to recognize.

"Bunch of fancy bastards in shiny armor those. I'll take a dinged up breastplate and battered shield over a title any day." Krem scoffed, eyes alive with the pride of a true warrior.

"And I'll bet you wear both handsomely." Solace was quick to recover from her mental invasion, eyes raking over the handsome warrior who'd come to her rescue. Eve was amused to note a small hint of color creep up Krem's neck. The Tevinter fighter was hit on nearly as often as Scout Harding but he had yet to master any flirtatious banter.

"What he wears is not your concern," Dalish broke into the conversation with a scowl, "Nor is anything underneath. Sniff elsewhere, Circle shem."

"Ah. Right. Sorry." Solace obviously recognized the woman as not only a fellow mage but a jealous lover, either one dangerous but combined deadly. Eve took pity on the discomfited girl, urging her charger to move forward once more in the line, away from the cart.

"That's really for the best, you know. Krem is a bit," The Inquisitor hesitated, searching for words that were honest but respectful, "Different. He's not right for everyone."

"Then I guess it's nice he found someone he's right with," the mage looked back over her shoulder, enough for Trevelyan to see her smile, "And the pretty mage man?"

"Completely off-limits. And definitely not right for you." The Inquisitor shook her head violently.

"You never know, Bull does have rather eclectic appetites," Dorian laughed, keen ears privy to their every word, "Just because I'm a one-man show doesn't mean he couldn't carry a cast."

"No!" Eve knew the objection was a bit louder than she intended, "He's picked his stage partner and there aren't going to be guest stars for any one night shows. Neither of you are Orlesian."

"Very true, Inquisitor. But do promise me we'll go to the theater together sometime? I have a feeling that with you it would be a delight." The Tevinter Magister had the most amazingly refined touch to his vulgar innuendo.

"I would but the Seeker only cares for romances." Trevelyan felt herself relax once more, sliding into Dorian's own playful tones.

"Pity, Nevarran tragedies are all the fashion this season. She'd fit in so well." Dorian mourned as he gazed ahead to the woman in question. Eve could see the wheels of his mind turning when he looked at the warrior. His thoughts always seemed to involve new clothes, different hair and a lot of brushes and paints. He'd given up on the personality part.

"The only Nevarran tragedy Cassandra would be involved in is murdering you." Trevelyan quickly leapt to the Seeker's defense, laughter teasing the magister to reply.

"My dear Inquisitor, that would be a _universal_ tragedy!" Dorian scoffed, as comically narcissistic as ever. They fell to their usual easy and flirtatious repartee, the occasional complaint from Solace or reproving glance from Cassandra simply adding fresh material.

* * *

Pirates are a naturally superstitious breed. They have to be. Reveling in violence, greed and debauchery doesn't exactly get them close to the Maker but a life of peril at sea, subject to the whims of nature, demanded some form of faith. So they looked for omens, believed in curses, trusted tokens to bring them good luck and endless rituals to get them home safely. Certain occasions brought out the superstitions in every sailor. The sight of a storm, for example. Isabela knew a fellow captain who'd spot a tempest and immediately open a bottle of rum and chuck it into the sea. 'Better a drunk fight than a fair one,' he would shrug and laugh off the gesture but as long as he kept sailing through the storms, he kept a healthy supply of rum on hand.

The most frequent and pervasive rituals all revolved around setting sail. Celso, for one, never gambled the night before, just in case bad luck could follow him to sea. Anselmo carried a small portrait of his wife that he kissed as they hit open water. Every crew man at some point went to pet the cat that kept the hold free from rope-chewing rats. And then there was the whistling; even if it was only beneath their breath for a few seconds, Isabela had heard all the men unconsciously begging the winds to be favorable and strong.

The Rivaini captain was no less superstitious but she'd never found a ritual that she truly believed could ensure a good voyage. As she stepped out of her cabin, tying her sash back into place, Isabela mused that reassuring a jealous Hawke with a thorough bit of headboard banging might be just the sort of first day tradition she could get behind. _And under._

"You only made it to 76, by the way." The Champion emerged as well, searching for an elusive strap on her armor. Isabela turned, smirking at both the taunt and the sight.

"Sorry, sweet cheeks, my mouth got a bit preoccupied. Not that you were complaining then." The captain grabbed Hawke's fasteners and easily did up the last buckle. The woman could put on her weapons with one hand in pitch black but how she managed to dress herself remained something of a mystery. _Then again, I've learned to handle all these damn clasps and belts much faster than she ever has to._

"I just want to be sure you remember to finish what you started." Hawke smiled. It wasn't the cocky smirk that so often graced her expression but a brief glimpse of the real woman beneath all that sarcasm and bravado. The gentle smile was rare; reserved only for her younger sister, certain memories and these occasional tender moments with her beloved pirate. Isabela had yet to see it without feeling like her insides were going to melt into a puddle of warm rainbows and squishiness.

"I doubt I'll ever be finished," the pirate murmured, the words almost too syrupy for her tongue before she remembered herself, "Now, if you're going to get over this foolishness you have to learn the Siren. Come on, a few hours in the rigging and you'll get a feel for how she handles."

"Odd, I thought that's what I was doing earlier." Hawke grinned but obediently strode down the stairs, heading for the rope ladders that hung off the main mast.

"Cheeky tease." Isabela shook her head and followed.

She might have missed Morrigan's presence but for a vague chill on the back of her neck, she knew the ice bitch was somewhere nearby. It took only a second to find the witch leaning against the railing at the stern, sheltered and nearly hidden by the staircase and helm.

"Here's a thought for you," Isabela stopped a few feet away from the apostate, crossing her arms, "If you want to be invisible, try showing a bit less skin. Tits are beacons even to a blind man."

"Then you should be mounted on a pole to guide ships at night," Morrigan shot right back, scorn like acid on her tongue.

"I get mounted often enough, thanks, but if I ever _do_ want a good pole I'll just come ask for the one you have lodged up your ass." The Captain had disliked this witch from the instant she marched into the Pearl, sneering at everything in sight.

"Very clever, utterly original," the apostate's eyes rolled with blatant disdain, "Tell me, am I supposed to feel inferior now to you and all your shameless promiscuity? I suppose I am to be weak with jealous longing for the wanton selfishness that drives your life?"

"Hardly," Isabela laughed, prowling closer, "You're colder than a- oh wait, you are a witch. I'm guessing you already know that bit, then."

"You have a fascination with my breasts, I take it? That's twice you've referenced them." Morrigan was holding her own in the conversation, smugly matching the pirate in her games.

She'd gotten better at this since the last time they met. Too bad that was the only thing that had changed. Maker's balls! Everyone from then was different. The Warden became a hero, Zevran was killing Crows, Sten was Arishok (Andraste curse his shriveled dick), songbird was the bloody Divine! Even Alistair had managed to become less of a naïve wanker in the decade since Denerim. How could this subzero piece of dragon meat still be warm-blooded as a rock?

"Ice play isn't really my thing, sweets, but don't you worry. I'm sure sooner or later some poor sod will come along and not care that touching you means getting frostbite." The pirate's lips curled into a malicious smirk.

She wasn't sure exactly what response she'd expected but the bored contempt in Morrigan's face suffered a sudden shudder. The apostate's expression of apathy dropped back into place like the slam of an iron door but it wasn't quite quick enough. Isabela had seen the fleeting hint of contradiction in her eyes, the twitch of muscle over clenched jaw holding back some barbed argument that might prove her wrong. The witch had thought of something. No, even better, she thought of _someone_!

"Oh, holy Maker's hairy toes!" Isabela gasped, laughter bubbling up like a victory of champagne, "You've gone and had it off with someone, haven't you? Ten years was too long even for you to keep this frigid bitch act running. Oh, please, please tell me it was Zevran!"

"Just why should it concern you, pirate?" Morrigan was trying to regain her advantage, slipping back into the nonchalant dismissals that might shame the Rivaini away. She had a better chance of kissing Andraste's blessed knickers than dissuading Isabela's instincts.

"Because that man's had me ass over tits so many times that if he finally got a piece of you it's like I did too!" The captain grinned, all too willing to admit that she'd had thoughts of pinning the self-righteous, judging witch against a dirty floor and making her enjoy every second. Ten years ago she would have stripped the apostate in the middle of the Pearl and made her writhe in puddles of stale ale begging for release, just to see the pride finally break and reveal the woman underneath. But that was ten years ago.

"I promise you, Captain," Morrigan squared herself, leaning into Isabela's personal space, "I have not and will never be bedded by a filthy, thieving, oversexed sack of lies and cheap liquor. And that goes for Zevran too."

With that the witch strolled confidently away, a tiny smirk of smug triumph dancing over her lips. Isabela sighed, relinquishing this battle. The apostate had played her cards well but there was no taking back the one she'd surrendered. Someone had gotten under that frigid exterior and found a pulse within. The Rivaini's smile was all fang as she decided that whether it was today or another decade from now, she would find out who.

"Captain!" Celso's urgent call brought Isabela out of her own thoughts and straight to the helm. The lookout had an eyeglass in one hand and barely disguised terror on his face. Without a word she grabbed the telescope and peered in the direction that his finger pointed. On the distant horizon a dark mass was growing larger. Silent as the shadow of demons and more ominous than thunderheads.

"Brand." Isabela called her first mate with a soft command, wordlessly handing over the spyglass. The elf took a long gaze, muscles clenching tight as he saw the looming disaster.

"Qunari," The mate betrayed himself with only the barest shiver in his sigh, "What do we do, Captain?"

Isabela took the telescope back to size the approaching dreadnought. Dark and huge and deadly and she could only think of the last few times one of the ugly bastards had been on her tail. She didn't have a good track record with the Ox-men's ocean going death machines. How did they always know when she had something they wanted? Maybe Arvid had been right, maybe they _could_ smell guilt.

"Throw all spare cargo overboard. Batten everything else. Tighten lines on the sails until they're screaming like virgins in Orlais. We're going to give them a chase." She knew that it was a long shot. Most of the crew would know it too. But direct confrontation was suicide and running gave them a few minutes to offer prayers and invoke whatever strands of luck they had left.

"Aye-aye. Anything else?" Brand nodded, absolute in his obedience and trust that the Queen of the Eastern Seas would navigate them safely through yet another shitstorm.

"Yeah, get me a bottle of rum and that picture of Anselmo's wife." Isabela tossed him a brash smile and wink. She waited until the laughing sailor had gone to carry out her orders, voice ringing loud over the deck, before she turned back to the growing threat. Her mouth turned to a thin line and filled with bitter ash. _Guess I should've fucked Hawke sooner today._

* * *

_An excerpt from the upcoming_ _Queen of the Eastern Seas_ _._  
_Kirkwall Publishing Company._  
Merchant's Guild distributors.  
65c. Copy at your own damn risk.  


_'When that dreadnought was spotted coming after us every person on deck knew there were only two possible fates: either we were in for a shitload of pain or the Qunari were. The Captain had danced with the ox-men twice before and I was there the last time. It wasn't pretty. Unless you have a thing for exploding hulls and screaming crewmen. The Qunari seem pretty fond of that._

_A brigantine is usually doing good to touch nine knots, I know 'cause I asked. But the Maker helps those who help themselves (and no one helps herself like Isabela) and we had to be doing better than twelve, catching wind and shedding cargo. But the speed of the gods isn't going to help you outstrip Qunari brute strength. There needs to be a book for looking up words. Then you could look up 'power' and just see a picture of a horn-headed giant and know. Their oars slap the water in perfect time, like those windup toys based on clockwork, absolutely relentless. Not a single oarsmen is lazy or halfhearted because it isn't slavery, it's a demand of the Qun._

_How the Captain knew we'd passed the point of no return, I haven't a clue. She's the expert at running; when she said it wouldn't work, no one argued. Heaving to would've meant surrender but that Rivaini minx wasn't going down so easy. She brought us completely around, tacking into the wind. No speed but damn me if she wasn't aimed straight for that boat of bullies. Isabela lost one ship to the Qunari and had a second captured. Watching her cling to the helm with that iron grip and glaring with death like the daggers on her back, I gotta admit I thought she might have decided to turn this ship into a battering ram and destroy us all just to take the horned bastards down as well._

_Then she was shouting orders: men into the rigging, grapplers to the prow, archers astern; she was going to fight. The Qunari would pay in blood if they wanted to rip one more ship out of her hands. Cards were more in her favor this time, the handful of allies with us were alien to the sea but Maker's Ass, they always knew how to fight._

_The first canon ball missed clean, sailing too far aside and raising an explosion of water off the port that soaked the entire deck. Over the echoing roar, Isabela was laughing. A bow is too small a target from afar and the Qunari had no choice but to let us bear down. They turned to let us see the bank of guns bristling along their starboard side, an army of punches just waiting to be thrown._

_The next few shots sang overhead or whistled within inches of the rail, heat and powder leaving black marks along the wood. We were just a few arm's lengths too far for the hooks when everyone heard cursing coming from the bowsprit and, wouldn't you know it? That crazy elf had shimmied out the jib lines with her bow._

_"_ _Bastards aren't taking us back. Shit, we got this." The thief was already wet as a bathed kitten from the canon splashes but her grip was good. The grappling line punched straight into the dreadnought hull. I don't know what in the Maker's unholy graces she had on that hook but the explosion ate through a quarter of the bow._

_Now we were playing an honest game of cards. Never thought I'd be glad of that. The Qunari were scrambling to put out fires and we were getting close enough for grappling lines. The captain left the helm to her mate and was goading her men with curses and sex like Queen Asha herself if she'd been an angry pirate whore. Isabela isn't a whore, mind you, but damn me she can sound like one._

_You have to try to picture this. Hawke and Aveline up in the bow, all glistening armor and tight sinews. Zevran aloft in the rigging of the jib, poised with shining daggers to drop on the first enemy. Elani out there hanging off the bow and cursing while she loaded more deadly fire into that bastardized crossbow. Lady de Vici, so collected and noble with her arsenal of darts and poisons disguised beneath flimsy, deceitful silks. The witch of the wilds holding the center of the deck, charged spells radiating off her staff like the torch of some ancient gods. If the Qunari could've seen them they would've turned about and fled. I think, when they were close enough, they wanted to._

_"_ _A drink for every horn!" The cry roared up from the Captain first, caught by every other member of the crew and growing louder as it echoed back and forth across the deck, carrying for unknown miles across the waves. Grappling lines sailed, dragging the dreadnought to meet on equal footing as the pirates swung across and flung themselves to battle._

_The canons stopped, even the Qunari are reluctant to fire when their famous black powder will destroy themselves as well. Instead it was a blade for blade, tooth for horn, boot to balls combat._

_"_ _Don't be too damn heroic!" Isabela shouted as Hawke grabbed a free line and swung out onto the dreadnought, laughing as she plowed into two soldiers and sliced the throat of a third. The ox-man that thought he could catch her in the back found a sword erupting from his chest, choking on blood as he dropped to the deck._

_"_ _Don't be too stupid." Aveline smirked to her friend, wrenching her blade free._

_While the two Fereldans were teaching Qunari to respect the true tenacity of dog lovers, Zevran and de Vici slid into the deadliness of assassins. The smoke of black powder created a hundred shadows and the two Crows slipped through them, striking out without warning and dragging the startled, flailing bodies back into darkness. Gurgling sighs of slit throats and the sucking sound of daggers ripped from flesh promised that the Ox-men weren't just vanishing into dark fog. Above the chaos was laughter, the elf thief cackling as her 'shit' bow fired explosive rounds into the dreadnought._

_On the deck of the_ Siren's Call II _Morrigan held fast against the onslaught of enemy warriors. Massive fists and deadly blades powered by rippling muscle swung time and again at the witch only to be blocked and flung aside. Glyphs illuminated the entire deck around her feet, changing colors as she prowled back and forth, gorges of fire and daggers of ice felling invaders as they tried to breach the ship._

_"_ _Cut the lines!" Isabela appeared like a miracle on the deck, honey eyes turned to molten fire. She raced up the railing, dagger slicing through ropes before her crew could even process the order._

_"_ _Get back here! They're going to start shooting!" the Captain screamed across at her allies, body slung dangerously far over the railing, calling everyone back to safety. The note of sheer panic in her voice spurred instant obedience, crew immediately leaving battle and scrambling back to the Siren. Hawke's boots had just landed safe when the first canon ball tore into the hull beneath our feet._

_"_ _Bloody Qunari. If they can't win they'll die trying!" Elani swung down from the rigging, racing to the rail and readying another shot. Qunari on the deck that weren't already dead dove for water, sensing the imminent destruction._

_A high canon shot hit the main mast, bringing down a nightmare of burning wood and sails._

_"_ _Morrigan!" Hawke shouted the warning first but another was already diving forward and knocking the witch out of danger. The apostate was face down on the deck and reeling but turned in time to see the flaming yard arm swing into Lady de Vici and drive her over the edge of the ship._

_"_ _Killer! Shit, no!" of all the people I expected to go after the Crow, that giggling thief was last on the list. But there it was, crossbow and satchels all tossed aside, scrambling up the railing and diving off into the fountain of agitated water that was sure to be de Vici's grave._

_"_ _Enough!" Morrigan lost her patience. I don't know if it was the arm that nearly turned her into a smear on the deck or the loss of an ally or just the naked effrontery of being saved by another person but the witch was absolutely done._

_Elani got Lady de Vici to the surface and caught hold of a rescue line just as Morrigan was reaching the top of the foremast. She stood for a moment in the rigging like the saint of all wounded sailors and then dove off. Anyone close enough swore that her eyes went from snapping gold to the burning embers of fire. Halfway down the magic took hold and whipping clothes became beating wings._

_The dragon swept over the panicking Qunari dreadnought, roaring anger and raining fire onto the decks. The licking flames ignited canons and lead balls belched out, splashing into the sea and singing over our sails._

_"_ _Ancestor's asses, Spike! Who's side are you on?!" I was getting a bit tired of being shot at and the Qunari were doing a pretty damn good job without help._

_"_ _No, she's right!" Isabela raced to the railing, watching flames lick across the dreadnought, "Archers, light up! Aim for the canons and kegs. That black powder will go up like Kirkwall's chantry!"_

_"_ _Poor taste, Isabela." Aveline shook her head, busy tossing the few remaining invaders overboard._

_"_ _Fact, Man Hands." The captain shot back, grinning as flaming arrows filled the sky and perforated the dreadnought hull like a quillback's spines._

_The sound of roaring danger and panicked shouts filled the air, canons erupting without control, kegs of powder bursting into explosions. Morrigan's dragon took another sweep over head, a long stream of white hot fire vaporizing flesh and metal and setting wood alight in its own devouring flames. Two more arching passes and there was nothing left moving on the Qunari deck, only steaming ash and blazes licking up pools of oil. The dragon dove towards our ship and I tell you, the crewmen were diving for safety and praying for the first time in their lives before she transformed midair. A burst of magic made an eye searing corona overhead and then the witch was flipping back down to the deck. Would you believe she landed not two inches from her staff?_

_"_ _You know, I didn't really see it before but now I definitely see the resemblance to your mother." Hawke was the first to approach, the compliment a sincere expression of praise and gratitude. The ear splitting noise of cracking wood interrupted any response and everyone turned to watch the dreadnought breaking apart. Over agonizing seconds that turned to minutes the enemy ship shattered and sank, leaving only agitated waves and rising steam as a memorial._

_"_ _And here I thought I had run out of ways to be impressed by your terrifying grace." Zevran looked back to the apostate. There was a trace of satisfaction about her lips that was far more frightening than any dragon's smile. She regarded the former Crow and looked about to blow a kiss, a ring of smoke escaping her lips instead._

_"_ _You know, it might only be when we're about to get our asses handed to us but I never get tired of seeing that trick." I wasn't about to get myself killed by slapping that scary broad on the shoulder but I got away with a handshake and I even think she smiled. Hard to tell since almost as soon as I was talking to her she spotted Elani and the crew hauling Lady de Vici back onto the deck. The assassin had a rip in her side like a dragon's bite and was clearly only conscious to swear at anyone who tried to touch her. Morrigan strode past all the sailors and grabbed the Antivan, demanding help. Funny that it was Anselmo who rushed forward, I think he's got a bit of a noble streak for a pirate. Between the two of them they managed to lift the injured woman and cart her off to treatment._

_Just before they got below deck Lady de Vici's wound ripped further, the pale assassin fighting so hard to stifle a scream of pain that she bit through her own lip. The blood trickled down her jaw and Morrigan wiped it up with her thumb, brushing it away before she leaned close._

_"_ _Be patient. You'll survive, I swear it. Just hold on," the witch's words were the gentlest anyone had ever remembered hearing but they didn't even touch the look in her eyes, "Please."_

_Yeah, I shit you not. She said please.'_

* * *

Morrigan could still feel the burn of dragon fire in her gut. The rage licked out in every direction. Fury at the Qunari for attacking, the pirates for not sailing faster, herself for not seeing the danger and – more than anything – de Vici for getting hurt. The yard arm that smashed into Ravenel had punched a crater in her side, blood soaked dress outlining the edges of her wound.

"Hold still, Lady! Don't -!" Anselmo cursed as a dart appeared like magic in his arm, other sailors lunging forward to hold the thrashing woman as he staggered away.

"Hands off! I'm fine! So help me Maker, if anyone touches me again!" Ravenel was sheet white and couldn't even sit up from the floor of the empty cabin they'd dragged her into. Still she stubbornly fought off anyone trying to help. She was going to open the wound further. It was already a miracle her insides weren't spilling onto the wood.

"Out! All of you!" Morrigan barked at the crew, grabbing collars and belts and pulling them away. The confused men fell towards the door, scrambling to escape from the roar of thunder still lacing her voice after dragon form.

"I'll be fine, just a potion . . ." the Antivan was fighting to stay awake, eyes black with pain and panic.

"Listen to me you crazy, stubborn woman," Morrigan knelt beside her, grabbing the sweat soaked face in her hands, "If you are so determined to die we can toss you back into those shark infested waters or deliver you in person to the Crows but 'twill not happen here and now with me."

"Morrigan, I don't-," Ravenel was still trying to argue and with everything else that had already happened, the apostate had no patience left. Her fist pulled back and hit true, snapping the woman's head to one side and sending her straight past dreams. The witch shook her fingers, aware that the aching pain would be bruises come tomorrow. Fortunately, potions could fix that and the noble's headache easily enough. It was the rest of these injuries that would prove terrible.

Even as she began pulling medicines and magics from her belt Morrigan shook away the voice in her mind that noticed how de Vici had whispered her name. Grabbing one of the assassin's own daggers she sliced open the bodice of her dress, peeling the blood stained silk away to reveal the gaping wound. Any thought or reactions the witch had at seeing Ravenel's naked torso was instantly pushed to the back of her mind, all thought and focus aimed only on the injury that was draining life with every heartbeat.

The order of healing was its own ritual; calming and familiar, the practiced steps helped silence Morrigan's mind. First was sterilizing the wound, pulling out the shrapnel of wood chunks and washing away splinters and ash. Then it was trying to stop the blood, magic and sutures combining in the dance of her fingers as she painstakingly eased the edges of flesh back together, filling in the gaps with elfroot and sewing the rest. Finally, she tore strips of bandage, winding each around fragile ribs and stitches until she couldn't see blood through the layers anymore. It was minutes that stretched to hours or more but she could only gauge time by the thready pulse beneath her hands.

The hardest step was the end, accepting she'd done all she could when she finished. Morrigan wiped her hands clean and sat back beside the unconscious assassin. All that remained was patience and hope. Hope it was enough to keep life in the broken body and that none of the damage had gone too deep for her spells to reach. Now that her life was out of danger and there was nothing else left to do, Morrigan took a long breath, brushing damp hair away from her eyes to stare down at the pale Antivan. Now was the time to process, to ponder the revelations of this battle. That Ravenel had saved her life once more without a thought, that she'd nearly died doing so, that Morrigan had been frightened for the woman, that she wasn't even a woman . . .

Morrigan sighed and tilted her head back against the cabin wall, not taking her eyes off the half-naked figure sprawled by her legs. Through the adrenaline, anger and fear she'd expected to find edges of shock or betrayal but there was none. Only numb acknowledgment. Lady de Vici was a man. And Morrigan didn't want him to die.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this chapter needs a tag for the surprise. If someone thinks it does, just say so and I'll add one.


	21. Act VI:i Saints & Sinners

Bethany cursed under her breath when hot wax singed the edge of her fingers. She waved the scalded digits, frantically pulling her papers out of the way of the slow moving river that made its way down her desk. Once all the documents were safe she lit a fresh candle off the old, extinguishing the guttering flame and waiting for the dribbling to cool. It was easier to clean the wax after it had set, she'd learned this after multiple late night accidents with her lighting.

 _Morrigan was right about me and candles._ The mage sighed. She marked her place in the book and set aside her studying for the night. A full moon hanging in the distance told her it was nearing midnight and she still hadn't found anything different. How many times had she reread Fiona's journals and letters? A dozen times? A dozen score? There was never going to be anything new but it was easier to review what she knew rather than think of all the things she didn't.

"I thought you might still be awake." Gentle laughter startled Bethany, reflexes bringing her to her feet before she recognized her cousin.

"Solona! Are you alright? Did you need me?" The sight of the Hero in her doorway at this late hour filled her with fresh worry, "Did one of the spells break? Does a potion taste wrong?"

"Relax, cousin!" The Warden rested a soothing hand on her relation's shoulder, guiding her to sit back down, "I couldn't sleep again. Apparently it runs in the family."

"Oh, right." Bethany felt blood in her cheeks as sparkling eyes laughed silently at her overreaction. The Warden had complained several times now about sleepless nights, sometimes tactfully mentioning being cold and other times outright cursing the emptiness of her bed. Neither were problems the younger woman could fix. What she could do was put on the kettle.

When the two mages were together in the Deep Roads Solona taught the young warden a particular tea that could stave off the worst of the dragon song nightmares. Perhaps tonight it could simply lull them to sleep. As she went through the familiar ritual of making the brew they fell into easy conversation. The cousins often found themselves first reminiscing about the Grey Wardens they knew. Ferelden, Orlais, Weisshaupt, there had been so many. A mournful silence inevitably fell as names piled up on the tips of their tongues, all the fallen friends and allies lost along the way. _Nathaniel, Velanna, Stroud, Anders – well, towards the end there was really only Justice._

It was inevitably talk of family that broke the sadness. Solona had never known her blood relations. The Circles had a cruel policy of breaking up siblings so that even now she did not know where the rest of Revka's children were sent, though she was constantly sending out queries and letters. But now she had her cousins. She had real family. They all clung to what little was left.

"I received a letter from Charade," Bethany remembered with excitement, "She sent it to the estate but Aveline brought it with her when she came. Tantervale seems to suit her well though she misses the coast. Uncle Gamlen has actually stopped drinking, or at least he's hiding it better from her. Oh, and she mentioned something about having friends in the Inquisition! A crazy girl named Jenny? I meant to ask Leliana about that."

"Oh yes, be sure to do that. Just wait 'til she hasn't got anything breakable in her hands." Solona's grin promised she knew all about Jennies. The young Hawke reached for the kettle as it whistled and only the Hero's abrupt hand on her wrist reminded her to grab a towel. She was more absent minded these days, distracted within a heartbeat by her own thoughts. _Too much to think about._

With the tea safely poured, the two mages settled back comfortably, talk of family leading to more current friends. Bethany was related to two heroes of Thedas; each of them, in turn, connected to a third. It was inevitable that their circle of associates overlapped.

"I saw you talking with Commander Rutherford yesterday." The Hero's arched eyebrow marked the blush creeping up her cousin's cheek once more.

"It was good to see an old friend." The younger warden tried to disguise her enthusiasm but knew it bled through every word.

"You'll want to work on making that line a bit more convincing before your sister gets back." Solona quickly sipped her tea to keep from laughing too hard. She was pleased to see that the younger woman's confidence was stronger these days. She wasn't ashamed of her affections or interests. She didn't doubt herself as she once did.

"You knew Cullen at the Circle, didn't you? What was he like back then?" Bethany's gaze drifted toward the past, unfocused on the room around them.

"Cullen at Calenhad Circle," the Warden paused thoughtfully, "He was a Templar. What do you expect? He was more decent than most of them but I can't pretend we were friends. He seemed like a good man, a bit troubled sometimes. Nervous, I suppose. I never quite understood his deep and abiding love for an organized weapons rack."

"You're joking," Bethany protested, annoyed at the teasing.

"I'm not! He really likes shiny things all in neat rows," Solona defended herself, "You had to have noticed that he practically squeaks when he walks. It's not natural to polish your armor that often. Seems a bit of a metaphor, don't you think?"

"Oh, you're terrible." The younger mage laughed, only realizing as she heard the sound that it had been days since she'd done so. There was never as much laughter when her sister was away. But then, there was less shouting with Isabela gone so it was a toss-up.

"Maybe you can help fix that? Get him interested in some other hobbies?" the Hero mercilessly prodded on.

"Stop!" Bethany needed to stop smiling, her cheeks were getting sore. The muscles relaxed as her thoughts turned further away, "To think, all those years my family kept me hidden in Lothering; if the Templars found out, I'd have been sent to the Circle where both of you already were."

"And he could've been tempted by demons in your form instead of mine. I think that would have been better for all of us." Solona rolled her eyes as she remembered the poor man revealing that she was his own deepest, torturing desire. In front of everyone. Not embarrassing at all.

"Or," the young Hawke's eyes sparked with challenge, "I could've been recruited to the wardens instead of you and found my way to a particular Chantry sister back in Lothering."

She didn't for a moment think any turn of events could have made her the Hero of Ferelden. But the ludicrous assertion was worth it just to hear her cousin's burst of surprised laughter.

"You did that anyway from what I understand! Leliana has many fond memories of you visiting the Chantry. You know listening to her stories is the fastest way to a bard's heart." Solona smirked as she scolded, imagining her redheaded love sitting with the young girl for hours in the pews, regaling her with poetic adventures. The scarred sister had loved Bethany's innocence; it reminded her of a lost piece of herself. It was a rare gift in this world – one the Hero didn't believe she'd ever possessed.

"Relax, cousin. I simply loved her accent and her tales," the younger mage assured, "And I needed somewhere to pass time while Hawke met the tavern maid."

"Which one?" Solona's brow arched up curiously. She couldn't remember more than a handful of faces from the abandoned village they'd passed through a decade before. Who would have caught a young Hawke's eye?

"Any of them." Bethany shrugged. How many hours had she whiled away in the comfortable glow of the Chantry, waiting for her elder sister to finish her games? She was glad that Hawke took her along, giving her the chance to get out of the cage of their home. Carver always wanted to join as well but picked fights with every boy in the village. After the third time that Marian rescued their brother from a boy twice his size she refused to bring him along anymore.

"She's changed a bit, hasn't she?" The Hero chuckled, notes of familiarity and experience warming her tone. She already knew that answer. Who would have thought that the tempestuous pirate that crossed paths with the Hero of Ferelden would one day be tamed by her cousin? Then again, who expected a Circle mage to give her heart to a lay sister?

Not for the first time (or last) the youngest Hawke wondered at just how much similarity there might be between her sister and cousin. Both heroes, to be sure, but the parallels seemed to run deeper. Both had the cavalier bravery to rush into battle without thought of consequence, an instinct to protect others at risk to themselves, the desire to end suffering for as many people as possible simply because they hated seeing anyone cry. Perhaps, like Hawke, Solona had also preferred life without any strings attached? Did the Warden flirt shamelessly with everyone who crossed her path before realizing she only wanted one person's attention for the rest of her life? Which did she fall into first with Leliana: love or bed?

"Our hearts make saints and sinners of us all." Bethany finally shrugged, pushing aside ruminations too deep for this hour of the night.

"And insomniacs." Solona leaned forward, holding out her nearly empty tea cup in toast. Both cousins smiled in commiseration as the tiny, porcelain clink faded to silence.

* * *

Well past midnight and no one on the _Siren's Call II_ was going to sleep. The crew were mostly manning pumps and trying to control what was left of the sails. They were aimed for the nearest coastline but it would take the rest of the night to reach shallow water with this damage. Despite all the injuries and danger, everyone was smiling. Boisterous laughter and ribald jokes sailed back and forth across the smoking deck. Surviving a battle with the Qunari was already a triumph. Actually sinking that big bastard? No one was going to believe this one. Hawke smiled as she thought of Varric trying to pull this tale off in the taverns. They'd call bullshit on him as soon as he opened his mouth. Not that it would matter once he added some demons and a kidnapped princess.

Hawke spotted the one person on deck not smiling like a madman. Ironic, since she was pretty damn close to being the maddest one around. Elani was pacing back and forth, wearing a groove into the wood boards and repeating calculations under her breath.

"Pretty brave what you did," the Champion stepped directly into the path of the obsessive pacing, "Saving the Lady? And I'd bet three sovereigns you're a terrible swimmer."

"Only three? I must've made the dive look better than usual. Maker's ass, my ribs hurt from that jump." Elani shook her head, running a pained hand over the injured bones.

"So why do it? Any one of us could've gone for her in another second but you were off the spot too fast for anyone else to even try." Hawke had been confused by the instantaneous reaction from the elf. It didn't seem in her nature to engage in random acts of selfless heroism.

"She's got the cipher. For all I know she _is_ the cipher. Without her the record doesn't get decoded and if your boss in Orlais doesn't get her answers, I don't get paid." Elani bit one thumbnail, then frowned at the taste of salt water and explosives, spitting it out.

"I can suddenly see why that might matter. Seeing as the Qunari are all hunting for you. And your stolen black powder." Hawke nodded to the satchel around the elf's neck. The way her arrows shattered that dreadnought hull into pieces? There could be no doubt what she was hiding.

"If all they wanted was the tins of powder I'd have tossed them over back in Rivain and we'd be free as a Marcher with no smalls," Elani laughed, shaking her head, "I didn't steal the powder, Hawke. I made it."

"Holy Maker. Are you serious?" Hawke's shocked breath instantly turned to a whisper. Her mind flashed back to Kirkwall: an upset Arishok and stolen recipe and horrendous scandal reminding everyone that – next to holy relics – the Qunari were most jealous of their secrets.

"Took me long enough but yeah, I broke in and got hold of the recipe. Took a few tries to get it right but now I have it down solid." The elf grinned, tapping her pointy-eared head with a conspiratorial grin of glee.

"No wonder the bastards are chasing you! Don't you tell a soul, understand? That's a secret that can make you rich and dead in the same second." The Champion unconsciously tugged the strap of Elani's satchel further onto her shoulder. Small wonder she was so desperate for her coin! This thief needed to disappear. Yesterday.

"Don't think I don't know it," Elani shook her head, "Stupid stuff has my ass tighter than a Most Holy's – sorry, I forgot you know her."

"She would be flattered, I assure you." Zevran's gentle laughter floated down from the rigging above. Both women looked up to spot the handsomely smiling rogue.

"Sneaky type, aren't you?" The thief challenged as he dropped from the ropes.

"I have found that observing the fascinations of womankind often requires respectful distances," the elf bowed gallantly, "Yet when you are all so alluring can you blame me for stealing closer to catch some delicate waft of your delights?"

"You truly haven't changed, Zevran," Hawke laughed. She really did have a soft spot for the assassin (when he wasn't trying to molest her sister). He'd freed Isabela from her marriage. If not for him the Fereldan rogue would never have found just who she wished to Champion. Kirkwall claimed Hawke as their own but she knew - long before that fateful battle - she belonged only to the Queen of the Eastern Seas. She had the scars to prove it.

"My charms serve a purpose, dear Champion. This lady, for example, she has born tremendous burden. Should not her soul be given release for some few seconds of pleasure? Does not everyone deserve to forget themselves and be reborn, if only for a moment, into the bosom of the Maker for a kiss of grace?" Zevran has eased himself into Elani's personal space. The thief was regarding him with naked curiosity.

"You're stuck on an awful lot of crazy talk for a mate that just wants some boot-knocking. Ever think of asking straight?" Elani's arched brow cut through all the bullshit, daring Zevran to utter one more superfluous word.

"Very well," the Antivan's smile didn't falter, "Would you care to knock boots?"

"Love to. Come on, has to be some empty cabins below. You don't mind if I bring the book, right?" Elani turned to head for the stairs, the same simple eagerness in her step as a child heading for playtime.

"Of course not. I can be quite flexible." Zevran followed, disbelieving grin spreading wide across his face.

"Ooh, promising. Do you know the Antivan Carpet Cleaner?" The thief clapped her hands, far too innocent an enthusiasm for such questions.

"My dear lady, I know the woman who _invented_ it. However, I do not recommend it on these floors." The former Crow shook his head, clucking his tongue sagaciously.

"Oh, right. Splinters. Well, we'll just get a bit creative then. Don't bother yourself if I call you Eva." Elani shrugged and ducked below decks.

"I have been called worse." Zevran accepted the terms with a touch of bemusement, then disappeared.

"Atta girl, Cuddles." Hawke laughed to herself, crossing the deck to climb the helm.

She found Isabela peering desperately into an eyeglass, punching holes into the darkness. Trying to make out a coastline at this hour was as much art as skill. The Champion thought she could hear the distant crash of breakers on shore but that could just as easily be the waves against their own hull. The pirate's seriousness as a captain was a different and unexpected pleasure. Who knew responsibility could be so sexy?

"You should probably thank Morrigan when you get a chance." Hawke strode over and rested her hands on the railing.

"For saving our asses or not blowing my ship completely to splinters?" Isabela didn't stop her careful scouring of the horizon. According to the maps and stars they knew roughly where they were, but finding shoals without rock was rare in this part of the Amaranthine. Assuming they were still in the ocean. They might have already crossed into the Waking Sea. They had to find safe shore by dawn since the men could only keep pumping water for so many hours before they'd collapse.

"Either one. I'll be tickled if you manage to make it to the word 'thanks' before you start fighting again." Hawke knew the animosity between her lover and the apostate went back well before her time. Some people just rubbed each other the wrong way. Although, in this particular case, there'd been no rubbing at all.

"Well, if you want a good tickling I'm sure I could manage with some toys I stole from the Rose." If Isabela's eye wasn't pressed to the spyglass she probably would've winked.

"Don't go teasing, Bela. The ship is sinking and we're trying to run aground. Now isn't the time to taunt me with ideas of feathers." Hawke shook her head but grinned at the pirate's unfailing ability to be inappropriate and tempting. Never one without the other.

"I'd say it's the perfect time," the captain laughed, then the amusement vanished from her face, "Son of a whore!"

"Zevran would be very hurt if he heard that." The Champion chided, chuckling beneath her breath.

"Bloody ox-men," Isabela groaned, tiredly handing the spyglass over, "That's twice now. It's starting to feel personal."

"I can't see anything." Hawke didn't have her lover's practiced eye and all she could make out was dark water under dark sky hitting dark land.

"It's the Wounded Coast. Like I haven't spent enough time stuck there already." The captain crossed her arms and glared out at the shore. The Champion felt her heart skip a beat, a rush of excitement filling her lungs. She pulled Isabela closer, wrapping arms around the sailor from behind so they could both look to the black coastline.

"I guess that's the Maker's sense of humor for you. Some people get condemned to an eternity in the Void but us? We get to go back to Kirkwall." Hawke couldn't stop the smile slowly spreading across her face. If there was an afterlife, she hoped it smelled like the Hanged Man on a Saturday night.

* * *

Eve stirred, her internal alarm announcing it was second watch. She struggled up from the bedroll, trying to not make any noise as she fumbled for her boots. She could've been silent as the snow in Emprise du Lion, Cassandra still woke beside her. An arm reached out, snaking around her waist to prevent her leaving.

"Where are you going?" The Seeker's accent was slow and thick when she was still partially asleep, the soft cadences she'd absorbed in Orlais turning into curls.

"I want to make sure Solace is still here." The Inquisitor confessed, certain that she was being unreasonable but unable to help the biting paranoia that had awakened her.

"She can't run again. I told Bull to put two on watch, one to guard the camp and the other to keep an eye on her." Cassandra smirked sleepily, amused that Trevelyan hadn't thought of the same.

"You're sure? Cole gets distracted. So does Sera." Eve continued to fret, fingers twitching around her boot.

"Blackwall does not. And neither will Grim," the Seeker woke enough to rise up behind her lover, wrapping her other arm around her shoulders, "I also told Dalish to put glyphs around her tent. She can't go anywhere."

"Dalish?" Eve thought back to the ugly look the Charger's mage had given Solace, "Maker preserve the girl if she needs to take a piss."

"Maker preserve her if she dares run again," Cassandra corrected, resting a soft kiss on the Inquisitor's ear, "Come back to sleep. She's not escaping tonight."

"I'm being ridiculous, aren't I?" Eve sighed, kicking off the one boot she'd slipped on and letting herself be drawn back to the ground. She felt the Seeker's shrug through a subtle shift of the arms holding her.

"What is the saying? Fool me once, shame on you," the words tickled her ear, "Fool me twice, shame on me," there was a hint of laughter in her breath, "Fool me three times, I feed you to the wyverns."

"I definitely like that." The Inquisitor chuckled and rolled over, facing the Seeker to catch her smile.

"You are taking it very personally, this business of her escaping." Cassandra reached up to brush the worry lines knitting around Eve's eyes.

"It feels," Trevelyan struggled to find a handle on emotions that weren't even thoughts yet, "Familiar. I know that urge to run. It's sudden and unreasonable and it can hit all at once no matter how much your mind tells you not to."

"She reminds you of yourself." The Seeker easily deciphered fact out of the other woman's confusion. The Inquisitor instinctively drew her lover closer, immersing herself in the familiar scent and warmth before finding her words.

"I didn't want to run. It truly didn't cross my mind. From the moment I woke up in Haven I just wanted my memories back and to prove I was innocent and to help in any way I could," Eve thought back to the first time she saw the hole in the sky, the air so thick with fear she could taste it, "But then I had a sword in my hands and no shackles and this crazy, instantaneous voice in my head just saying: Go!"

"I thought you were going to," Cassandra quietly agreed, voice echoing the same memory, "I feared I would have to drag you back in chains once more. But then I saw it pass. You simply dropped the weapon and surrendered. I must confess, I've often wondered why."

"Other than the fact that you were yelling at me?" Trevelyan leaned back to give her an incredulous look, then laughed when a finger gouged her side, "No, I saw how angry you were."

"I'm always angry, just ask Varric." The Seeker pointed out the obvious, humor and pride lacing together in her smile.

"No, you were frustrated and out of control, you _needed_ me. I could see how much you cared about what was going on and I suddenly felt I'd be better off with you than away from you." The Inquisitor recalled throwing her sword onto the frozen lake, waiting for the Seeker's reaction. The Nevarran warrior had surprised her after that. Just as she'd been doing almost every day since.

"I think it was because you were afraid I would hurt you." Cassandra teased, luring Eve back from memories.

"The thought did cross my mind. Several times. Per day. For the first month." Trevelyan layered the confessions on top of each other, watching the Seeker's smile turn to a laugh.

"And now?" Cassandra could purr in a low tone that melted Eve's bones. Had anyone tried to tell her during those early days at Haven that she would one night be laying in the Seeker's arms, she would've had them locked up to dry out. Had she always been this woman beneath the armor? Flirtatious, gentle, even subtly teasing if you knew how to listen. Did anyone else ever see this side of her or was it the Inquisitor's alone to savor?

"Now I know you could hurt me worse than any person in my entire life," Eve saw the smile beginning to vanish from her lover's face and quickly continued, "Yet I've never felt safer."

"Close, Inquisitor. Very close. That wit of yours will be your undoing one day," Cassandra scolded.

"It can't. That's your job," Trevelyan grinned. The Seeker accepted her apology with a solid jab to the ribs, followed by a kiss.

* * *

Morrigan grew up running free through the Korcari Wilds, seldom on only two legs. She'd ripped at fellow wolves, seething with pride and warring for dominion of a pack. She'd prowled as a bear; ribs hollow for want of food, desperate need driving the hunt ever farther afield and nearly mad with aching hunger. She'd suffered the blinding rage of getting caught in a snare; violence lashing out at the hunters, the trap and even the wounded paw, knowing only the need to hurt because of pain.

The emotions of animals were primal, simple and above all: pure. The starving wolf didn't care about being alpha. The trapped bear forgot hunger. Mating season drove suicidal madness into every instinct and being hunted meant only a command to flee. There was no confusion of feelings in animal form, no tangle of thoughts wreaking havoc in multiple parts of the mind. Not like the way humans could feel. Not like what her head was doing now.

She sat wearily on the aged and splintered cabin floor, leaning back against the wall, one hand still loosely holding Ravenel's wrist to keep track of the weak rhythms of survival. Spikes of pride like wolves chased around the injured bear behind her eyes and she fought to slow everything down, to simply catch hold of any one thought. The howl of her ego demanded attention first, ringing back and forth in her ears with accusations and blame. How could she not have known?

Looking down at the sleeping assassin she repeated the question that was railing at her, fingers pointing in every direction and furious to have been caught unawares. Even now, with a heavy wool blanket pulled up to Ravenel's chin it was impossible to believe what her eyes had told her. She studied the face, cataloging each detail, searching for the clue she'd missed. She traced the slender jaw, gliding higher up a cheek, authenticating every curve and angle as delicate as Orlesian porcelain. Long eyelashes, full lips – she throttled the voice that remembered exactly how they felt – lengthy curls of hair as shiny and black as ruffled raven wings. There was no indication, no clue to the truth unless an eye invented what it needed to see. No one could have known.

That only left the growling irritation to deal with. The persistent anger that wanted to lash out at everything around her. From the numbing shock of her first realization, the rising heat of injury had steadily increased, setting her jaw on edge and curling her fingers into fists. This emotion spread like a web in every direction and each time she plucked at a strand it broke but left no less of itself smothering her mind. The smoldering irritation flailed in every direction, trying to break free but growing ever more tangled. When Morrigan's mind warred with itself there was a single voice that inevitably rose up from within her thoughts.

 _Poor child. Do you even know why you're upset?_ Flemeth's laughter bled out of her memories, accusing her ignorance, mocking her naiveté.

 _Ravenel de Vici is a man_. The simple fact felt like a hollow explanation even within her own mind.

 _Oh? I would've thought you'd be pleased. After all, men are so much more easily manipulated. A quick solution for any passing need._ The distant recollection of noisome bedsprings and rude dismissals brought a rise of color to Morrigan's cheeks.

 _He isn't that sort of man._ Why it mattered to make the distinction, the apostate wasn't sure but it felt important. Her eyes darted to the sleeping assassin. Death was still hollowing a wan fragility into his sleeping features, face a beautiful martyrdom.

 _Most men are that sort, child._ Flemeth laughed once more, reveling in her daughter's complicated innocence. _But now you have met one that isn't. Very well. He is a man unlike any other. I didn't know you'd developed a preference about such things._

 _I haven't. I don't care._ People were universally terrible and disappointing, regardless of race or sex. The witch had long since stopped expecting better.

_Ah, I see. I hear it there, in your voice where that childish spike of anger bursts out. Like the temper tantrums you used to throw. You always wanted your way, Morrigan. You long for control and you loathe disappointment. So much easier to simply not care than to admit you might get hurt, isn't it?_

_I'm not disappointed_. Her denial was about as convincing as one of Zevran's compliments.

_No. You're well beyond that already, you're hurt. He was toying with you. All that charm and camaraderie, the apologies and confessions? All a game to lure you in and see just how weak you might become. I warned you this would happen if you dropped your guard. You failed to see danger, you fell into the assassin's trap and now you're in pain._

_That's not what hurts!_ Morrigan's answer snapped with conviction, temper growing hot and burning through complaints and confusion like paper. The injury had intensified to a white pinpoint.

 _Really? Then, pray, do enlighten me._ The teasing tone was enjoying her anger, dancing playfully around every spike and lull of rage.

 _Ravenel made me think of you!_ Morrigan's accusation broke through like the fire of a canon, creating a crater of silence in the space of her thoughts.

 _You deceived me._ She could feel the righteous indignation building, intensifying every word. _You_ _refused to explain yourself, wove mysteries and questions around every aspect of your life until it was impossible to know you. You lied to me. For decades_ _. And you've never changed._ The heat of fury gave way to bitterness, memories like sour acid eating through her mind. _If I'm hurt it's because what she did reminded me of you. But no one can cause pain like you, mother. She certainly can't._

 _Mmm. And now it's 'she' again, is it?_ Flemeth's parting words were smug but oddly pleased with Morrigan's conclusion. Her voice faded back into the shadows of Morrigan's mind without further comment. There wasn't even a laugh.

A touch yanked her out of her thoughts. A familiar sensation that brought back shades of the Archive; possessiveness and urgency and apology wrapped around her wrist. Ravenel was awake.


	22. Act VI:ii Lady de Vici

Morrigan found Ravenel's eyes watching her, color dim from pain and fatigue but still determined to hold her gaze. The grip on her wrist loosened, waiting for her to pull away. If she were still angry she would have. The witch rapidly scoured her own thoughts. There was a trace of sting on her pride, a flare of irritation, a hint of injury and offense but each was like a smoldering ember, barely worth stoking to full blaze.

"You're alive," Morrigan observed. Not that she'd been overly worried for the assassin. The only reason she was pleased was because it meant she could finally hear answers. She most certainly didn't feel any personal relief. Or have to stifle a sigh.

"I'm full of surprises like that." The Antivan managed a small smile, voice raw from his ordeal yet unmistakably the same honeyed tone.

"Surprises. An assassin's word for lies?" The accusation leapt out sharp, challenge thrust like a dagger. Rather than flinching from the harsh words, Ravenel's expression hardened.

" _Nothing_ about me is a lie," the vehement reply was instantaneous, full of a conviction that gave Morrigan pause, "I might be more complicated than other people but I would've thought a woman that can change into a dragon would hardly mind."

"I thought you were occupied with drowning." The witch arched one eyebrow, annoyed to find herself silently agreeing with his argument.

"I was doing my best, yes, but I caught a few glimpses. I've never seen anything like it." His expression relaxed, dropping all defenses. There it was again, the honest admiration that she'd heard before in their conversations. He wasn't afraid of her, he was awed. Sincerity was a rare experience in Morrigan's life. It felt uncomfortable, like being hugged with words. She wasn't the hugging type.

The assassin was right, damnably. One of Morrigan's chief complaints was that people were, for the most part, ridiculously simple creatures. Not honest or straightforward but shallow and predictable. Their motives, their pleasures, their wants, their . . . secrets. Her eyes flicked briefly over the prone Antivan, the heavy blanket refusing to yield any hint of what lay beneath. Ravenel obviously wasn't simple.

"It must be amazing," the assassin continued in the silence, "I can't imagine what it would be like to fly."

"Perhaps when you are well enough I can arrange a demonstration? Throwing you off the Grand Cathedral tower should suffice." She curled her smile into threat, preventing any trace of amusement from crossing her eyes.

"You are angry." Ravenel sighed, stating the obvious without blame.

"You are a man." Morrigan replied in the same tone.

"Only on the outside, I assure you. Even by that standard you would have to be using a terribly narrow definition." He managed a brief laugh, dismissing the accusation as the least of their worries. There was an argument building, but that fact wasn't at the core.

"I do not like riddles." The apostate frowned. That wasn't quite true, she liked taking riddles apart. She loved finding answers. What she didn't like were the puzzles she couldn't solve on her own.

"I see. Does that mean if I am not a riddle you will like me?" Ravenel's smirk was teasing, trying to mask a thread of hope that lay beneath the question.

"I did not say that." Morrigan shook her head firmly, refusing this particular conversation.

"You did not deny it either," the assassin's smile widened before turning serious, "Just ask me, dear lady. Anything."

The gentle invitation was as much entreaty as permission. The witch had questions already lining up across her tongue. All the 'whys' felt too large to tackle first. The 'hows' she could guess. When hardly seemed important.

"Who else knows?" Morrigan focused on what mattered right now.

"A dear friend in Tevinter. A seamstress in Antiva City whose loyalty I bought by killing her husband. An overly clever dwarf," there was a twitch of irritation near Ravenel's eye, "And now you."

"No others? None of those 'playthings' you taunted Lord Valisti about?" She was irked to have even thought of the question. A spike of fury bubbled inside her at the idea of being in the company of toys and conquests, fooled by a charade.

"Please," Ravenel immediately scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Those clueless coquettes? They're like pretty flowers; fun to pluck away from lovers and ruin as wives. They seldom even knew my name, let alone the rest of me."

"The Crows have no idea?" She recalled the rest of their conversation in the Archives.

"None at all, else I'd have been dead long ago." The Antivan shrugged, resigned to the terms of his life.

"Yet you turned yourself into Lady de Vici to serve them anyway. Why? To carry on the family tradition? Is this an elaborate ploy for survival or simply a point of pride?" She could feel the edges of her irritation now, knot unraveling as she pulled at the loose strings. This was the heart of the riddle, the mystery she couldn't resolve.

"Morrigan, if you are determined to see me as a deception – of you or anyone else – I do not think I can convince you otherwise." Ravenel sighed, mourning defeat. He shifted to turn away, sadness eating into an already pained expression. Morrigan caught his hand before it slid from her wrist, the force of her grip refusing to let the conversation end there.

"You are going to have to try." Her reply was an iron command.

* * *

_Half a lifetime before . . ._

_Ravenel's feet were in agony. Dancing for so many hours would've ruined him in any shoes but Tevinter's latest fashion in heels was an entirely new kind of torture. It was worth it though. Every throbbing toe._

_"_ _Did you see the look on the young baron's face when I accepted his sister's invitation to call?" Ravenel gave into the bubbling laughter that was part giddy exhaustion and part triumphant glee. The long corridor leading to his guest room sucked up the sound in huge tapestries and plush carpets._

_"_ _Instead of his own!" Mae immediately recalled the tense moment, "My dear, I thought he might explode. Pity her father swept in so rudely. Just wait. Let her make a good marriage and produce her magister line. Then she'll be free to do as she pleases. Trust me, in a few years she'll be only too happy to get reacquainted."_

_"_ _And then won't she be surprised." Ravenel felt his usual sarcasm rising up, pushing back at the anxieties that were trying to ruin the night. Maevaris heard the twist of emotions under his hollow laugh. The Tevinter woman stopped them both short, turning the youth to face her squarely._

_"_ _She should be so fortunate," she scolded with a smile, hand lifting Ravenel's chin to meet her eyes, "You were the loveliest one in that room tonight. Those girls have been grooming for this match-making charade of a party for months and none of them could hold a candle to you. If they didn't want to kill you it was only because they were having more tempting thoughts."_

_"_ _You don't think anyone recognized me from before? I mean, do they even remember?" Ravenel instinctively lowered his voice, as if servants might be hiding under the furniture._

_"_ _Of course they do! It was only two years ago and it was the best story for months!" Mae laughed before seeing the way her protégé's cheeks paled, then she was patiently serious, "The ladies love that tale, dear, and they all repeat it with relish. That boorish noble got exactly what he deserved. No matter how many times the story is told – and I heard at least three versions tonight – not a soul thought that idiot was thrown from the balcony by anything other than a woman with odd taste in clothes. Now, seeing as we've fixed your fashion they only have more reason to love you."_

_"_ _Or the clothing, at least." The young Antivan shrugged off the compliment, turning to resume the journey to his rooms before his blush betrayed him. The blonde magister always knew how to chase away his worries. She laced her arm with his, giving him a reassuring squeeze as they walked._

_"_ _What is it I always tell you, dear? We are more than the sum of our parts. Don't fret so. You're still young, growing into yourself," Mae reached over to tuck a strand of stray hair behind his ear, "I've no doubt that you will astonish people with the woman you're going to be."_

_"_ _Thank you, Maeve." Ravenel knew there was no hiding the color this time. Besides, the lighter skinned Tevinter always liked the deep rouge effect of her compliments._

_"_ _You must write to your mother about this. Your first presentation ball, the dress and dancing, not to mention that expert little trick of fingers you pulled on Lord Hercine." The magister pulled the stolen message from her sleeve, delighting in the victory._

_"_ _He wasn't exactly watching my hands." The raven haired youth rolled his eyes, wondering how a bit of artfully placed padding could be so hypnotic. Then again, he'd allowed his eyes to wander a few times over the gowns that left less to the imagination than his own._

_"_ _You are sure to be my finest creation, little blackbird. Your mother is going to be quite proud." Maeve's affectionate use of Ravenel's childhood nickname only emphasized the thought of his absent parent._

_"_ _Her letter is very late this month. It's usually within a week of the first." He confessed the worry that had been crouched in the back of his mind for days, growing larger and more defined as it fed on his thoughts._

_The Antivan had no memories of his home country. His only connection to that heritage came through the letters that arrived like clockwork. Every month for years on end his mother had written to him of Antiva City, Treviso, the Crows and de Vicis, history, philosophy, life, death and - most importantly – the art of death. She took contracts in the Imperium as often as possible simply to set eyes on her son but it had been almost a year since the last time they'd met in person. A delay in their stream of letters felt like the stutter of a failing heartbeat._

_"_ _Her last missive said that she would be presenting your sister to the Crows soon, I'm sure it's made her busy." Mae easily waved off the concern as they entered the guest suite that Ravenel had called home for the last two years. His own estate on the far side of Minrathous - the one that had housed his childhood - stood idle, lonely, waiting for his return to isolation and studies._

_"_ _You think Avaris will be good enough?" He'd never even set eyes on his sister. A de Vici meeting a sibling was death waiting to happen.  
_

_"_ _Please, dear, you know the women of your family! The girl is sure to impress them. With luck your mother will be released from her title and free to come join you any day now." Maeve had the sort of smile that could eradicate shadows for miles in every direction and she beamed it on her young friend now._

_"_ _You're wrong you know," Ravenel quirked one eyebrow teasingly at the older woman, enjoying her moment of confusion, "I didn't gather half as many eyes as you."_

_"_ _The privilege of experience, I assure you." Maeve laughed as she moved to a crystal decanter, pouring them each a glass of expensive liquor._

_Ravenel took the moment to enjoy a final look in the mirror. The green satin gown was brighter than anything he would have dared choose but – as usual – Maeve was completely right about how the color intensified the nightshade of his eyes. It was also a far richer tone than any Tevinter woman could fully carry, only matching the bronzed skin of an Antivan. He reached up to touch the elegantly coiffed hair that coiled behind his ears and spilled down his shoulders. It had always been long, even as a child, but deliberately allowing it to grow out had given amazing results. As Ravenel looked at the reflection it was easier to think of herself, rather than him. Every day her mind was split in two directions, torn between the voice of her thoughts, the confusion of facts and the opinions of others. When the face in the mirror so perfectly matched what she imagined within it felt like the pieces slipped into place, if only for a second._

_The sound of crystal shattering was his first warning. He turned to see Maeve collapsing against the sideboard, bottles knocked to the ground. The sight of a tiny black dart just beneath her blonde curls was the second warning but Ravenel was too stunned to react. A blade appeared like magic against his throat, an arm yanking him back hard against rough leather._

_"_ _Where's the de Vici boy?" The voice in his ear turned rushing blood to ice. His mind snapped facts together faster than he could blink._

_"_ _Closer than you think." He was suddenly grateful to still be in heels as he drove the sharp spike into a vulnerable boot. His elbow shot back, knocking wind out of a surprised stomach at the same moment he snapped his head, satisfied with the loud crunch of a wounded nose. He twisted away from his captor, hundreds of damned hours of training that his mother had insisted he suffer now coiled in every muscle._

_He knew it would be a Crow. He'd been raised on the stories of their ruthless business, the contracts that hounded people across generations. The terrifying army that lurked in shadows was the entire reason he'd grown up in Tevinter, hidden from their reach and yet they'd still come. They'd found him._

_He couldn't have known it would be her. Ravenel froze, stunned by the sight of black curls and eyes the same violent nightshade as his own. Avaris. A small, passing voice in his head noticed that he'd clearly been the one to inherit their mother's looks._

_"_ _You? You're my brother?" The woman laughed, spitting away the blood from her nose, "How perfect! If only mother could see you. The shock might have killed her and saved me the trouble."_

_Ravenel's instincts lunged to one side just before the dagger shot out and embedded in the wall, handle quivering. His body was acting on impulse, reflexes trained to survive no matter how badly her mind was lost in a maelstrom of confusion._

_"_ _You what?!" He demanded, maintaining the same distant circle between them no matter how his sister moved._

_"_ _She didn't keep the bargain, brother dear," Avaris' grin was all fang and malice, "The Crows weren't too happy when she presented an unproven heir. No number of kills matter until there's a de Vici in the list. Too bad I didn't know about you earlier."_

_Dead. She was dead. Mother was dead. Ravenel felt rage like the roar of an unquenchable sea rising up beneath her ribs. When Avaris lunged again he caught her wrist, throwing her across the room. She hit the mirror with a shattering crash, glass raining to the floor._

_"_ _You killed her!" He stalked forward, prowling around the assassin like a hungry lion held at bay._

_"_ _No one kills Crows like a Crow," Avaris had recovered quickly from the shocking throw, "It was me or her and it's the same for you, twisted bit of freak flesh that you are."_

_"_ _I would have left you alone." Ravenel danced back from the slash of a dagger, buying time, cursing the furniture that forced a tight fight._

_"_ _The Crows wouldn't," his sister pulled a second blade, "'The best de Vici kills the rest,' right?"_

_Ravenel had heard the motto before. Her mother had quoted it bitterly when recounting her own upbringing. She'd slain two brothers and a sister to achieve the title and never realized how much she regretted that victory until holding her firstborn child in her arms._

_"_ _So one of us has to die." Ravenel could see the coming attack._

_"_ _Or the Crows come for us both," Avaris shrugged, smiling as if it was all simply a joke, "That's the nature of our life. Or didn't mother include that in her letters and fairy stories for you?"_

_Ravenel pulled up his skirt to find the dagger strapped against his leg, unsheathing the blade just in time to block his sister's first strike._

_"_ _Oh, well done! I guess mother taught you how to hide weapons amidst all those ruffles?" Avaris laughed, second blade already lashing forward and grazing her brother's neck. Ravenel grabbed for the pin holding his hair, stabbing it into the hand near his ear and Avaris recoiled with a curse._

_"_ _I guess she didn't teach you enough about poisons." He had never before felt the primal smirk that curled his lips, sneering at the woman's mistake. Avaris' numbed hand dropped her dagger, no matter how she shook and flailed the limb the fingers wouldn't respond. Given enough time the poison would paralyze her whole arm. In a strong enough dose it might've eaten into her entire body but Ravenel had only expected to use it on some overly forward nobles this night. Not a murderous sister bent on his death._

_"_ _You utter bitch." Avaris lunged again at her brother, knocking his dagger aside and crashing them both to the floor. They landed in the maelstrom of shattered glass near the mirror, Ravenel was on his back and felt the shards slicing satin and flesh to ribbons._

_"_ _I'll take that as a compliment." He growled triumphantly, wrestling for control of the blade hovering near his throat. Not bastard, bitch. Even the woman trying to kill him had seen what he really was._

_"_ _You think you can survive the Crows once they find out about you? You're blade fodder, just like every other man that's been de Vici." Avaris' spitting hate was pushing closer, the edge of her dagger nearly brushing death. Ravenel flailed for purchase on the floor, trying to find an angle to throw off this attacker. Broken glass tore into his skin as he struggled._

_"_ _I'm not those men." He grasped desperately at the blood slicked ground, slicing his hand open on the fractured razor blades scattered in every direction._

_"_ _No, you're even less," Avaris' grin was malicious pleasure, closing in for a kill, "You think putting on a dress is going to make a difference to the Crows? What you wear won't make you Lady de Vici."_

_"_ _No," Ravenel's questing fingers found a large shard of glass, gripping it tight to keep hold of edges turning slick with blood, "But killing you will."_

_Avaris' throat erupted in blood, mouth momentarily gaping in shock before her brother threw her back, rising without care for the crimson spray ruining his dress. He stood over the body, watching the last breath choked out in rivulets, light leaving eyes the same violet color as his own. Only then did he release hold of the biting glass pain. The room was spinning, feet aching, arms and back a complicated laceration of blood and pain but still the only heir of de Vici moved calmly to the sideboard. She found the undisturbed glass of brandy and took a deep drink._ No one kills Crows like a Crow. _The words repeated in her head. Blood trickling from her hand over cut crystal edges was all she could look at for minutes, mind churning over the revelations of the night. A low moan from the floor broke her distracted musings and she turned to see Maeve rising._

_"_ _What hit me?" The blonde clutched her head, dizzy and sick from poison, then she spotted the dead woman a few feet away, "Ravenel! Who is that? What happened?!"_

_"_ _I think," Ravenel gazed coolly over the carnage of the room before setting down the brandy glass with a steady hand, "It's time to show everyone exactly what sort of woman I am."_

"Within days I returned to Antiva City," the assassin wound down the story, "I had letters of introduction, knowledge of secrets that no one outside the family could have and to top it off? My sister's corpse. All more than enough to convince the Crows. I was the Lady de Vici they wanted."

Morrigan had listened in silence as Ravenel unwound himself completely. _Herself._ She found her thoughts instinctively correcting labels. Each step of the complicated history made it easier to understand the woman before her. The puzzle was complete enough to see the picture but small holes lingered.

"Why return to the Crows? Why not simply live your life in Tevinter without putting yourself in peril with a pack of assassins?" She poked at the gap, spinning reasons like shapes to find what fit.

"If my sister could find trace of me then they certainly would. Better to stand in their midst on my own terms than be hunted on theirs," Ravenel shook her head ruefully, "Besides, what better way to turn into a professional Crow killer? My specialty is assassinating fellow assassins, handsomely paid for my own revenge."

"Revenge is meager sustenance for so many years." Morrigan had seen many devoured by that all-consuming drive, the need to wreak ruin on others inevitably destroying the vengeful as well.

"But it was delicious for a time," the Antivan's eyes glittered briefly at her memories, "You're right, of course. Eventually it was mere habit. I've not had a taste of excitement in my life for years. Not until you and your friends arrived to disrupt my world."

"'Tis what they do best," the apostate was surprised at the ease of her smile, "I can think of worse reasons to undertake adventure. Though excitement is little comfort for a hole in your side."

"Speaking of which, it's itching like a nest of spiders chewing on my insides." Ravenel struggled to sit up, wincing in pain as the knitting muscles protested. She faltered, nearly falling back and Morrigan instinctively lunged forward, catching her with both arms. For a split second she was acutely aware of breath against her neck, both of them caught unawares by the sudden intimacy. The moment passed and she eased the assassin to lean against the cabin wall, avoiding the eyes that she knew were trying to read her thoughts.

"'Tis the healing at work. I can ease it." The apostate reached to pull down the blanket that was still gathered around de Vici.

She peeled the fabric back once more and found she was less startled by the contrast. She turned her focus to the bandage, charging a spell that might soothe the pain. Laying her palm flat over where she knew the injury to be she let the magic release. As the healing worked she found herself noticing small differences that she'd not seen before. Ravenel was slender, muscles slight but sinuous and full of explanation for the strength of his hands. _Her hands._ The shape wasn't quite what she expected; more soft lines than hard edges and supple beneath her fingers.

Realizing her distraction Morrigan dragged her mind back to concentrate. This damnable assassin did something unforgivable to her discipline. Irritation flashed across her face, aimed at herself but only visible as anger. De Vici rested a hand over hers, subtly urging her eyes upward.

"This isn't how I wanted you to find out." The words trembled between frustration and regret, Ravenel's gaze begging her to believe.

"How comforting that you intended to tell me. When? Before or after you finished playing your games?" She knew her answer was sharp, defensive spikes bristling out of fury with herself. Why control her temper when she couldn't seem to control anything else?

"It isn't a game, Morrigan. I swear to you," the grip on her hand tightened, pouring earnestness into the touch, "I was biting through my tongue each time we spoke just to keep from confessing every part of myself. In a mere two days I have already shared more with you than anyone else and I desperately wanted you to know the rest."

"Then why didn't you simply speak?" The witch felt her irritated demand weaken with confusion. Why didn't people say what they meant? Why couldn't Ravenel have simply told her? What did she think would have happened? _What would have happened?_

"I –," the assassin's cheeks colored, embarrassment bringing blood back to her face but she didn't try to hide it, "I wanted to wait until after I kissed you once more. Just in case."

"In case of what?" Morrigan hated that her mind flooded again with those moments in the Archive, her entire being narrowed to the windows of her senses and fighting not to surrender completely. It was infuriating and ridiculous that the very mention of that episode could undo her thoughts.

"In case I wouldn't get the chance after you knew." Now the steady gaze flickered, doubt tugging her eyes away and Morrigan immediately protested the loss. She used her free hand to draw the Antivan's face back, wishing that flash of hope she saw didn't twist her stomach into a knot. She could feel the hand on hers clutch nervously, trying not to let nerves grip too tight.

"Then I suppose this is your chance." Morrigan was tired of the war. This foolish battle within her mind and senses was going to be put to rest once and for all. She expected de Vici to seize the opportunity as before but the assassin pulled back.

"Oh? Now you're willing to kiss me because you think of me as a man?" There was heat in the Antivan's answer, a gleam of defiance, "But I'm not."

"That is not my reason," Morrigan leaned close so that there could be no mistaking her intent, "'Tis because I am tired of wanting it to happen."

She watched the flare of challenge disappear from Ravenel's eyes, subtly accepting the explanation. But she still did not press forward. This time it was Morrigan who had to make a move. _Time for an answer._ Morrigan closed the last inch of distance.

She didn't even know she'd held her breath until she felt a sigh of relief part her lips. There it was, the same breathtaking softness welcoming her, begging her to linger. The familiar warmth spread over her; a gentle invasion of her senses pouring across her tongue, against her skin, inhaled with every breath. The assassin accepted each caress of her lips, returning the touches with patient sweetness. Morrigan felt fingers hovering near her hair, resisting the temptation to touch. Surrender came in the barest brush against her cheek, the back of a hand like a whisper of wonder.

The stroke seized Morrigan with a tremor beneath her ribs. It echoed the feeling of Kieran's hands as a babe, the way he held her face with such innocent adoration. She was used to kisses full of hunger and urgency, desire and demand that would bleed to apathy and boredom when need was quenched. She'd never imagined another person could reach for her with such awe. The lips answering her own were the repentance of sinners; a yielding, grateful, inspired confession of feeling and Morrigan suddenly couldn't breathe.

"'Tis no different." She shook her head as she broke away, arguing her heart back to calm and her lungs to stop shaking.

"What?" Ravenel was no better, face flushed and eyes full of vibrant color once again.

"From before," Morrigan clarified, confounded yet mysteriously elated, "Man or woman, danger or none, angry or eager; none of it matters. The feeling is the same."

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" The Antivan licked her lips nervously. _His lips?_ Morrigan could feel her thoughts still trying to reconcile the contradiction. Somehow, it didn't seem as important anymore. _  
_

"I think it could be." The apostate's gradual nod caused a radiant smile and Morrigan felt another stutter beneath her ribs.

"Perhaps it is a question worth exploring?" de Vici's confidence had begun to return, reaching up to comb through the hair beside the witch's face.

"Perhaps 'tis." Morrigan knew she smiled just before she found the assassin's mouth once more, she could feel Ravenel savoring the shape.


	23. Act VI:iii Safe Harbor

Leliana was indescribably grateful that she'd spent so many years attending Orlesian balls. It had equipped her to tolerate terrible conversation, tremendous fashion-induced pain and – like now - the endless fussing of others around her half-naked person. The vestments of Divine were complicated to assemble and apparently required no less than eight hands to be touching her without stop. Her eyes flitted to the far mirror and - as happened each time she saw the robes of the Most Holy - she expected to see Dorothea. The loss of her beloved friend hadn't stopped aching despite all that had passed since. The former bard wished, with so much of her being, that she could see a trace of that Reverend Mother in her own reflection.

Divine Justinia V had possessed a tender grace in her authority. She had been absolute in her passion and faith but capable of breaking armies with the gentleness of her words. She knew forgiveness and redemption; to stand in her presence was to know the Maker's own love. Leliana could not see that in the mirror. She saw what she'd seen for years: the faintly haughty tilt to her chin, stubborn edge to her jaw, seductively pouting lips, flashing sharpness in her eyes. She saw Marjolaine. The bard-master had been dead over a decade and still lingered behind her thoughts. She was the voice whispering beneath her suspicions, smelling secrets, seducing loyalties, delighting in every aspect of the Grand Game. She was the jaded edge under Leliana's smile and though the bard wished she could forget the memories, she did not regret the lessons.

Marjolaine taught her the skills that would keep her alive for years to come and grant her the ease to move from the Orlesian court to a Blighted battlefield and onward to utter shadow. Standing now in the dawn light as it filtered through the windows of the Grand Cathedral only reminded her of how much she needed all she'd learned. There had been love, then pain and betrayal and hurt unlike anything she'd ever felt but it had culminated in bringing her here.

 _"_ _I do not regret any of the pain, the anger, the loneliness."_ She recalled the confession she offered up to Solona late one night after seeing Marjolaine for the last time. " _Because it brought me to you."_ It was the first time she dared voice her full feelings. She'd fallen in love with the mage long before but only with her past finally settled did she feel safe surrendering that truth. 'I love you' were the most powerful words Leliana knew and they transformed her life the moment they crossed her lips. The warden had made her heart sing when she replied with the same confession. The tender smile that graced Leliana's lips as she recalled that distant night was reflected in the mirror, chasing away ghosts and leaving only the Divine herself, softened with thoughts of her beloved.

"And to think this is the woman that once told me she wore a gown of feathers and shoes made of gems." The lilting voice was like magic summoned by her thoughts. The redhead started to turn, only to be scolded by the sisters dressing her. She managed to twist her neck enough to see the Hero in her doorway, relaxed against the frame and enjoying the view.

"It was a headdress of feathers and gems combined. You were always terrible at paying attention, no?" Leliana chided, enjoying the affectionate eyes riveted on her own.

"I pay attention to what matters and I hung on your every word. I just can't help it if I was more entranced by your voice than stories." Solona straightened up and took a few casual paces into the Most Holy's dressing room.

"You are very charming this morning." Leliana felt warmth in her cheeks, not enough for a blush but a pleasant tickle. The servants and sisters bustling around her robes exchanged tiny smiles and giggles but made no comment. They knew better than to challenge the Divine on her associates. Besides, all of them had seen the Hero in the company of Most Holy Victoria for months. There was no mystery to their relationship, only an aversion to scandal. Both women were very careful to give no reason for gossip. It helped that most of the girls were completely charmed by the Warden as well.

"Pity the clerics and mothers don't seem to share your opinion. I think I caught cold just coming up here." Solona's dramatic shudder ended in a tragic collapse onto the nearby chaise.

"And you thought you had faced all the worst monsters in the Deep Roads." Leliana teased, more than familiar with the icy glares that were constantly trying to eviscerate the Warden. She saw far more of them than the mage since they were generally aimed at her back. The Chantry was suspicious of magic, whether it stopped Blights or not. Not to mention everyone knew enough of the Hero's story to understand exactly why she was present in Val Royeaux. There was a sense of everyone holding their breath, just waiting for the newest Divine to be embroiled in a faith-breaking disgrace. _They could not even imagine what is in store._ One corner of her lips tilted up, savoring the thought like a forbidden sin.

"I never thought they were the _worst_ , I just assumed they were as bad as I'd have to deal with in my life. I hardly expected to trade slaying darkspawn for surviving the Chantry. Have you even spoken with Grand Cleric Malfaise? She makes a brood mother seem endearing." The mage's exaggerated complaint was hard to take seriously when her smile was so good humored.

She wasn't terribly wrong either. About Malfaise, certainly, but also about the expectations of her life. The Circle mage became a Grey Warden out of exigency and then Hero because of her valiant heart. She'd never signed on for the politics and cut throat games of Orlais and the Chantry. Yet she smiled at clerics that wished her dead, laughed at aristocrats that bored her and made jokes about it all when they were alone together.

"It is different than we intended, yes?" Leliana felt an ache in her throat, a hint of the sadness that their fates had twisted so unpredictably. They had spent so many nights beside the campfire, naming stars, telling stories and planning possible futures. It was remarkable how many dreams the love of a mage and bard could create. This was not a reality either of them had foreseen.

"There's a noticeable lack of sunny beaches and piles of gold. And I have to assume that no matter what you might be wearing under those robes, 'scantily clad' women are right out of the picture." Solona winked, eyes playfully roving over the ceremonial garb as if with enough concentration she might guess the color of the Divine's smalls. The blasé humor caused another round of stifled giggles. Leliana darted an amused glance at the young sister fastening medallions to her mantle. The girl caught her look and bit her lip to stay silent, deep color rising up her cheeks. The Hero of Ferelden could be a little too much for these innocents.

"C'est finis, Excellence," the sister murmured, too shy to meet her eyes again. The incessant machine of hands that had been fussing about her all began to retract, folding neatly into prayerful obedience.

"Thank you." Leliana nodded, a simple gesture dismissing them. The girls bustled quickly from the room, hints of whispers turning ears pink as they tried to not be caught stealing glances back. Divine Victoria sighed; it would be days before the giggling stopped again. The ranks of the faithful and pure tended to also sway towards hopelessly romantic. It was a fact that would eventually work in her favor but at the moment was merely annoying.

"A year ago I imagined we would be in the Deep Roads together right now," Leliana confessed, sitting down across from Solona with caution for her garb, "I said as much to Lady Trevelyan when she asked after you. The entire time I served the Inquisition I imagined only the day I would no longer be needed so I could be at your side. Instead, it is you who came to mine."

The spymaster had found it endearing that Inquisitor Trevelyan so often asked about the Hero. It was as though she knew the rogue's heart was divided, part of it very far away. The noble had never judged or pressured her to stay; they both knew from the outset that Leliana's service to the Inquisition was temporary. It had been more difficult than she expected when it finally came time to leave. Josephine and Cassandra were two of her most trusted friends. The Inquisitor had proven herself worthwhile as a third. She did not think she could have suffered the goodbyes if it were not for the call of the Chantry. Or the presence of a particular Warden at her side.

"As I recall it was you who came chasing me first, my love," Solona reached across to take Leliana's hand, "Just like every other time in our lives together. It's quite flattering, being pursued so relentlessly."

"You!" The redhead scolded, pouting as she pulled her hand away but the laughing mage kept hold.

"It doesn't matter, Leli. I would've found you if you hadn't come for me first. I don't care if it's darkspawn and deep 'shrooms or duchesses and terrible cheese; we're together. We're creating a future. That's all I care about." The Hero had a way of turning her words to pure honey when she held her lover's gaze. The former spymaster softened, relaxing into the caress of her hand and wishing she could surrender to more.

"And how is our future?" Leliana leaned forward, conspiratorial as she searched the Fereldan's face for any trace of worry.

"The same, my love. Stop fretting. My cousin is better than she thinks with the recipes and Morrigan cannot be more than three days away. Closer, I'd guess. There are no nightmares and no unholy voices whispering in the dark. Unless you count that strange cleric that keeps going into broom closets to say his prayers." Solona assured her beloved, fingers squeezing tight in the microcosmic gesture of a comforting hug.

"Morrigan. I cannot believe I find myself longing for that witch." Leliana thought of the many arguments she'd lost to the apostate.

The woman's tongue was sharp as blades and twice as deadly and they'd never failed to lash at each other every chance they could. When she'd joined the Inquisition the spymaster had entertained a passing thought of arranging an elaborate 'accident.' Gradually, she'd found the witch was more tolerable than before. Not likeable, precisely, but gentler, softer; less inclined to use words as weapons for fun. Having a child had changed her. As it should change anyone.

"That's not what our latest crowd of fanatics think," the Warden's eyes sparkled with a revelation come to light, "There are entire hordes of malcontents in Orlais that believe you've been seduced to paganism and magic in Morrigan's arms. Imagine! The Most Holy in unholy congress with an apostate."

"That heartless woman? I couldn't stand the thought!" Leliana's momentary horror gave way to laughter, "Yet I am certain you have enjoyed imagining it, yes?"

"The way you two fought? Zevran and Oghren had a bet going for weeks that you were secretly lovers. I managed to take 3 sovereigns off them both." Solona shrugged, not denying the accusation but quickly redirecting the subject. She had learned a great deal from her bard.

"You were exploiting my affections?" The tone of the Most Holy, full of challenge and rebuke and injured honor, couldn't quite overrule the redhead's smirk.

"I was betting on a sure thing. As I have from the day we met, Leli." Just like that the Hero turned the conversation on its ear once more, playful argument giving way to tender affection.

"There is," Leliana paused, wondering how she could ever hold her thoughts when eyes so full of emotion were gazing into her, "Nothing you regret? No aspect of our life you would change?"

"None at all," the Warden paused as if she suddenly doubted her own answer, "Except, perhaps, this hat of yours. I miss seeing your hair."

"It is a headdress, Warden." Divine Victoria scolded with a laugh, rising to her feet.

"It is a monstrosity, Most Holy," Solona shot back with a grin. She didn't release the rogue's fingers but rose with her, pausing to brush a reverent kiss on the back of her hand before finally breaking contact. It was a gentle promise of patience, a virtue they had both mastered. Sweeping from the room, shedding the persona of a spymaster bard and entering fully the state of Divine Victoria, Leliana had only the passing thought that even the patience of saints wears thin.

* * *

The _Siren's Call II_ settled on the shoals of the wounded coast not long after dawn light crept lazily over the horizon. The longboats had already hit the shallow water and taken a few of Hawke's company ashore. She'd not left the deck yet because Isabela was still marching back and forth giving impassioned, obscene orders to her first mate.

"Get the lumber for the mast in Ostwick. The bastards there might gouge coin like the last whore on a busy night but the wood is better than anything in Kirkwall," The Rivaini prowled her ship's deck, adding last minute thoughts to her list of commands, "And don't let Anselmo do the bargaining. So used to handing his wife the purse he might as well just bend over and spread his legs. We'll reach Val Royeaux in two days and you'd better not be long behind. No more than five days, Brand, and I want to see this ship tighter than a sister's ass."

"I'll guess that's before you got through with her, Captain." Brand was more than used to his commander's unique style of communication.

"Cute, sweet cheeks, but it isn't getting you out of the job. Get to work." Isabela grinned, tossing her mate a wink before heading towards the longboat. She spotted Morrigan waiting by the railing and – after a long mental litany of breathtaking profanity – approached the witch. She hated what she was about to do but took comfort from the fact that she could make the other woman hate it more.

"I always wondered what might get an ice witch all heated up," the Rivaini sailor commented as she strolled over, "I thought it would be leather and chains and something wicked with a stick. But fire and fangs? If I'd known you were that sort of girl I'd have treated you to the Bone Pit years ago."

"I can hardly be bothered to care about the opinions of a gutter wench." Morrigan rolled her eyes, already radiating her disdain for everything about the pirate.

"Oh, but you should. See, I know who does the best gutter cleaning," Isabela poured all the sex she could into the taunt, "Now that I know what steers your rudder I'll treat you to their special. Costs 3 sovereigns and takes half the night but it's the least I can do as a thank you." She added the final words as offhandedly as possible, hoping they'd go unnoticed.

"A what?" The apostate's burgeoning smirk promised that she'd failed to be flippant enough. The captain repeated her earlier list of curses and added in a few extra balls and tits for good measure. The witch's haughtily arched brow wasn't going to let this pass.

"A thank you," the Rivaini finally repeated, "For saving the ship. It's got the Maker's own glory hole punched in the side and cinders worse than an alienage winter but it could be worse. Just like everything else with you."

"I was impatient with your crew's ineffectual flailing. And all your yelling was giving me a headache." Morrigan's ego hardly needed stroking. She turned away, dismissing the subject with as much distaste as Isabela had felt in broaching it. Apparently there were a few things they actually _could_ agree on.

"Right," Isabela nodded and turned her attention across deck, "I said it! You owe me two sovereigns and an Orlesian Oyster, Hawke. I'll collect when we get to Kirkwall, thank you."

"It doesn't count as winning the bet if she knows about it, Bela." The Champion immediately argued back, pride far more valuable than anything else that had been gambled. The two rogues had a way of making bets so that there was never an actual loser.

"I said the words, sweets. No adding extras after the coin crosses palm." The sailor folded her arms, looking forward to a good bit of verbal foreplay. With the right subject matter she could wind Hawke up for the entire day. She'd once kept her Champion on edge for three days, goading and teasing until the woman was near exploding. _Walked like a broken puppet the whole day after_. Isabela grinned as she recalled the prolonged victory.

"You don't earn coin unless you can fake a bit of enthusiasm." Hawke's eyes glinted just as happily, preparing for the fight.

"Ooh, sorry, I never was much on faking. If I have to pretend to be enjoying myself I just take matters into my own hands." The Captain sauntered closer into the other woman's space.

"Your hands are busy enough already." The Champion was quick with her answer.

"Which is why it never hurts to hire more." Isabela purred, watching Hawke's eyes flicker toward her lips. That tiny, darting glance was all she needed to know she'd nearly won.

"Andraste's Graces! Would you two give it a rest? It's barely first light!" Aveline broke the moment of triumph, one gauntlet smacking hard into Hawke's shoulder. The guardswoman would have hit the pirate as well but her other arm was busy helping Ravenel emerge from below deck.

"We're not finished with this." Hawke warned the Captain, smile full of wicked threat.

"Oh, I'm counting on it." Isabela hummed to herself, already thinking of the dozen or more ways she might torture her Champion over the coming day. The Wounded Coast had a scandalous amount of history caught up in its tide. She might even find that lost pair of smalls.

"Nice to see you up and about, Lady de Vici. I suppose it takes more than a flaming yard arm and dunk in the sea to kill a Crow?" Hawke greeted the assassin, pleased to see her straighten up and finish approaching on her own strength. Her injuries wouldn't slow them down after all.

"Yes, we are insufferably resilient," the Antivan laughed before her eyes lit on Morrigan, "But I can hardly take credit. Your lady sorceress has an astonishingly skilled touch."

Isabela wasn't sure if she'd imagined the extra hint of warmth that caressed the assassin's words. She shot a quick glance to Hawke, seeing the same confusion and surprise in the Fereldan's face. The innuendo was just subtle enough to be dignified and go unnoticed. By the look in her eye, however, Morrigan had caught it. How was Ravenel not already a pillar of ice at the bottom of the sea?

"I have many talents," the witch shrugged with her usual arrogant ease but there was something wicked in the quirk of her lips, "And magic is much easier to share when the recipient is so willing."

This time the pirate knew exactly what she'd heard. She bit the inside of her cheek, catching hold of Hawke's arm to hang back as the apostate and assassin left for the long boat.

"Maker suck my toes! Did I just hear the ice bitch flirting?" Isabela demanded of an equally amazed Champion.

"I guess even vipers have a mating call," Hawke shook her head in wonder, face quickly filling with mischief, "Right, new bet. Double or nothing: de Vici's bruises will be all healed by the time we reach Val Royeaux but she'll be sporting scratches."

"With the dragon lady? Claw marks, more like." The pirate instantly agreed.

* * *

It was hard to believe that after the Blights, mage/templar war and Corypheus there were still so many faithful people left alive and well enough to stand in the courtyard of the Grand Cathedral. The space had been full for days, a swarming mass of humanity. When you factored in all the people on balconies, battlements and surrounding roads holding vigil for the new Divine, it felt like there couldn't be a soul anywhere else in Thedas. Hundreds of thousands of people were pressed together, silently praying, murmuring the verses beneath their breath, reverently hanging on every word. Given that level of worshipful solemnity, Trevelyan decided it might not be the best idea to parade the Inquisition up the main steps with a Qunari, three mages and half a dozen mercenaries.

A side entrance wound the motley cavalcade to the rear yard and stables, completely abandoned at this hour of the ceremonies. That was why it was so easy to hear footsteps racing towards them as the friends crossed through the gate.

"Trouble coming, Boss." Bull smiled, spotting the oncoming figures.

"Won't they be surprised?" Eve smirked back. She held up a hand for everyone to halt and watch the speeding approach. The first figure shot straight past them, barely registering as more than a fleeing ball of panic and curses. The second was slower, limping and leaving a trail of blood. Right on his heels was a familiar shape, closing in angrily with a sword drawn.

"Gotta hand it to the Commander. He runs pretty good in all that heavy gear." Iron Bull chuckled as Cullen caught the closest victim and brought him down with a single strike, not even slowing in his chase.

"We can't all run about with our breasts hanging out like you, chief." Krem teased, prolonging the rocky rumble that was the Qunari's laugh. The former Templar nearly caught his second quarry, only to have the squirrely criminal twist away and double back in the opposite direction.

"Let's give the Commander a hand, shall we? Dorian?" Trevelyan didn't even have to look at her favorite mage to convey the order.

"Delighted." Pavus trilled as he struck his staff on the cobbles. A wave of ice raced across the stones, sliding under the feet of the fleeing suspect and sending him crashing into the stable wall. His pained groan turned into a howl when an arrow sank into his shoulder, pinning him to the wood.

"Care to stick around a bit, then?" Sera's taunt giggled with malice as she slung her bow back over her shoulder.

"My thanks, Inquisitor. We caught two others trying to sneak into the kitchens with poison and these fled." Cullen stopped before them and saluted, just barely winded from his chase.

"Never a dull moment is it, Commander?" Eve slid off her mount, dragging Solace down as well without releasing hold of the mage.

"This brings us to eight prisoners. I gather Leliana's agents have been quite busy." Rutherford gathered up the collar of the unconscious would-be assassin.

"Ah, the holy Chant of Light sung above while informants and spies are tortured below. I can't think of anything more appropriate for Sister Nightingale's enthronement." Dorian sighed as if the sheer ironic perfection might leave him overwhelmed.

"And this is?" Cullen glanced at the mage that was taking in the entire scene with eyes the size of saucers.

"Someone Leliana wished to interview personally." The Inquisitor easily replied. Though she was certain her small group of allies could keep a secret she also knew they were nosy as nugs hunting truffles and Solace didn't look up for any scrutiny. The blonde mage was already trying to shrink behind her captor.

"Oh, the mage? Warden Amell gave instructions that she could be left with young Lady Hawke so that the rest of you can attend the Chant. If you care to." Cullen's eyes swept over the diverse assortment of friends, acknowledging that most of them cared more for a dirty limerick than holy verse.

"Over my broken body," Trevelyan scoffed, tightening her grip on Solace, "I'm not letting her out of my sight until she's seen Leliana."

"That could get awkward when she needs to piss." Sera pointed out the logical complication, face screwed up in her usual prelude to a laugh.

"Yes. It does." Solace confirmed, scowling at the warrior who hadn't released hold of her except for the few hours they were all unconscious.

"Very well, I'm sure the servants trying to linger invisibly around the doorway can help you all to your rooms. You," Cullen grabbed the pierced suspect and ripped him off the wall, "Will be enjoying the hospitality of Divine Victoria."

The Commander wasn't a cruel man but his smile at that moment might have left anyone that didn't know him confused. He strode off, dragging a bleeding prisoner in either hand and eliciting much panic from the startled staff.

"Aw, heartwarming, innit? It's a kinder, gentler Chantry already." Sera laughed as she skipped past.

"Keep an eye on her, will you, Blackwall?" Eve glanced back to the one ally that always seemed good at dealing with their elf friend's madness.

"As you wish, Your Worship," the black bearded warrior sighed patiently, heading into the cathedral right behind the blonde, "Sera? Sera! I saw that!"

"You're all really the Inquisition?" Solace looked after the disappearing violence and confusion, then raked her eyes back over the remaining members around her.

Grim and Skinner were both glaring at everyone. Stitches was arguing with Dalish. Dorian was trying to goad Cassandra into a discussion of Chantry policy vis-a-vis the wearing of undergarments. Rocky was eyeing the towers of the Grand Cathedral and holding a fire fuse; though fondling was actually a better word for it. Cole's nonsensical mutterings momentarily became horrifically lucid and Krem turned bright red, slapping a hand over the spirit's mouth before he could continue the graphic thought.

"You know it," Bull grinned, shadow towering over the mage, "And this is us on a good day."

* * *

Trekking along the Wounded Coast was arduous to newcomers but it was a stroll down memory lane for Hawke's companions.

"See that spot there? That's where I washed up the first time." Isabela pointed to a foaming piece of coast between deadly rocks.

"To think how life would've been different if only the tide had changed." Aveline gave the pirate a sarcastically sour look that did little to disguise the underlying fondness. It might've taken ten years and Hawke stuck in the middle as common ground, but they'd eventually made peace.

A few miles further on it was Varric that recognized the scenery.

"Hey, Hawke! Isn't this the spot where you surprised those raiders by jumping out at them naked?" the dwarf looked distinctly fond of this particular slope of sand.

"I was already naked, Varric. And I was just as surprised as they were. Isabela was the only one that didn't seem to care." The Champion corrected patiently, tossing a smirk to her pirate.

"They shouldn't have been stumbling about where they weren't wanted. A half decent raider knows a naked woman's going to put a dagger in his belly no matter where he meets her." The Riviaini shrugged, more annoyed with the poor performance of her brethren than by any transgress of privacy.

"Ah, now that bit of wreckage I recognize. I recall the ribs of this ship were particularly uncomfortable." Zevran nodded to the small skeleton of a foundered vessel as they passed.

"No one told you to grab hold of a fist of splinters. I said we should do a sandwich." Isabela easily dismissed the elf's complaint with a seductive grin.

"Please." Aveline's coloring was caught between furious and sick as she recalled her own perspective of that particular memory. No one was certain but the theory was that if she ever did throw up from all the lewd descriptions she'd punch everyone afterward.

"Oh, Hawke, look! The signal towers are still here. Remember that day? Running around slaughtering bandits just so girly britches over here could have a bit of time alone with her slab of man meat?" Isabela pointed excitedly at the somewhat decrepit fire stand.

"Isabela." Aveline was working away from nausea toward anger.

"I honestly don't understand it, Big Girl. How can anyone be so _bad_ at flirting? I mean, you'd been around me for three years by then. You didn't pick up any pointers?" The sailor sighed like a teacher with a stubborn student.

"I don't speak 'whore,' whore." The guardswoman growled, finding the full and robust irritation that eventually rose in any encounter with the pirate, no matter how friendly they'd grown. Hawke privately thought that Isabela goaded these conversations precisely _because_ she was uncomfortable thinking of the guard captain as a friend.

"Not well anyway," the pirate agreed with a sniff, "Worth it, I suppose. What with seeing that kiss you planted on Hawke afterwards."

"It was a thank you. On the cheek." Aveline's jaw was clenched so tight it was a miracle the teeth weren't cracking. Her eyes darted over the assorted company, daring them to challenge her explanation.

"Big girl, she turned pink as Andraste's tits. If I could heat her up like that with a kiss on the cheek then she'd have been setting the bed on fire years ago!" Isabela laughed at the older woman's clear discomfort.

"She's my friend, Bela. It was just a bit unexpected," Hawke finally leapt in to defend her fellow Fereldan's honor, "Besides, we did set the bed on fire. The Hanged Man – remember?"

"Oh, right. The candle incident. Another reason romance is overrated." The pirate clucked her tongue ruefully as the memory returned.

"Looks like you'll get the chance to try again." Varric had been in the lead and stopped at the top of a rock outcropping. The rest of the friends clambered up the rise and paused, savoring the view. In the distance lay the unmistakable, proud, ravaged city of Kirkwall. The wreckage of the ruined Chantry had been cleared away. A dozen other familiar buildings had been damaged or destroyed by war with Starkhaven but the proud towers of the Gallows and Keep were still a welcome sight.

"Corff is going to snot his whiskey." Hawke grinned as she gazed down at the city that had once been home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun side note: look up a picture of the Grand Cathedral of Val Royeaux and then compare it to St. Peter's Square in Vatican City.


	24. Act VI: iv Home

On entering Kirkwall all of Hawke's companions felt dragged in different directions like tides to distant shores. Isabela wanted to check on Merrill, a mission the Champion instantly followed. Zevran wanted to peruse Hightown targets. Varric always had business. Aveline dismissed herself easily from all these pursuits and headed straight for the Viscount's Keep. She didn't worry overmuch about reconnecting with her allies. They would inevitably end up at the Hanged man. If each of the friends was an ocean wave then the Lowtown tavern was the moon itself, drawing them back.

She marched purposefully past the guards of the Keep, mentally noting the smart salutes and pleased smiles. She found her office exactly as she'd left it, down to the last sheet of finished paperwork. A pile of new reports had been stacked respectfully on the edge of her desk and while the Guard Captain longed to check on her troops she was also desperate to see exactly what had transpired in her absence. Above all, she was intent on finding her husband and apologizing once more for abandoning him for all this chaos.

"There's a wonderful report there from Brennan. Apparently the Carta bullies were trying to extort protection from some Lowtown merchants and didn't know that Lady Elegant used to be one of them. Several dwarf bodies have been found in the alleys. The surgeon assures me their deaths were not painless." A staid but ironic voice greeted from the doorway.

"Donnic," Aveline smiled at the sight of her husband, immediately walking over to receive a welcoming kiss, "You are a sight for tired eyes."

"As are you, my Captain. You're back sooner than I expected, mission already complete? Usually anything with the Hawkes takes better than a week and has you spitting like a choked drake." Donnic happily wrapped both arms around Aveline, drawing her into a comfortable hug that would be utterly impermissible if the door was open. Thank the Maker he'd been smart enough to shut it.

"Not yet. A few more days. Then I will have a dozen tales for you and half as many scars as proof." Aveline shook her head, leaning back from the embrace to enjoy the dark eyes darting over her face.

"I know you are a practiced hand at these missions with the Champion but I can't help worry," Donnic frowned, fists clenching protectively against immovable armor, "Is everything alright?"

"Alright?" Aveline snorted at the very idea, "I am traveling with a hedge mage, two assassins, a thief, whore and Varric!"

"Enjoying yourself then?" Donnic hadn't missed the quirk of smile at the edge of her lips as she spoke.

"It's a bit like old times." The redhead laughed with the admission. Escaping guards in Kont-aar, fighting lyrium smugglers in Rivain, destroying a Qunari Dreadnought; there was nothing quite like adventuring with Hawke. Profanity, obscenity and crimes all aside, the Champion and her companions truly made life exciting. And she always made it clear she wanted her oldest friend at her side. For justice, coin, excitement or simply practice, the rogue had lured her guard ally into impossible missions again and again. Aveline could never say no to anything Hawke wanted. Because, deep down, she always wanted it too.

* * *

The sound of the Chant of Light being sung reached Cassandra's ears even though they were still far from the throne room. The singers took turns and often in the breaks between their voices one could hear echoes of the song being repeated by thousands of others, passing the words along. Depending on where someone was standing in the massive courtyard below they might be hearing two or three different verses all echoing at once.

_'_ _I cannot see the path. Perhaps there is only abyss. Trembling I step forward, In darkness enveloped.'_

The Seeker did not expect to hear such an echo so close. The Inquisitor wasn't inclined to quote holy writ, let alone sing along with the Chant but Cassandra had distinctly heard the whisper of words. She glanced to her side and saw Solace's lips barely moving, perfectly in time with the verses of Trials 1 as it reached their ears. She watched, amazed to see the mage finish the first hymn and then slide effortlessly to the second.

"I did not think you would be so devout." The Seeker couldn't hold her silence any longer. That a woman with Solace's profane vocabulary and indulgent vices had memorized the Chant was nearly impossible to comprehend, let alone accept. The blonde's eyes snapped up, realizing she'd been speaking aloud. Her gaze had only been focused on the distant doors of the throne room but now she met Cassandra's scrutiny. Getting caught brought a bloom of color to her cheeks, still it was nothing compared to the sparks that had ignited defiance in her eyes.

"I had a friend that used to repeat it to me when I was a child." The set of her jaw threatened an unholy fit of violence if the Seeker dared question her further. The mage had been fairly cooperative ever since the Arbor Wilds; not polite or docile by any means but not actively fighting any more. Now Cassandra could see the woman's body tensing, ready to defend or even flee. The Inquisitor shot the Nevarran a worried look, tightening her grip on the blonde's arm.

"Words whispering, breaking silence, peaceful promises partly pleas," Cole had been lingering in their shadows, invisible until he spoke, "Songs from lost times never quite in tune, memorized the notes but can't feel the music."

"Stop that." Solace turned sharply on the spirit, the color of her cheeks intensifying with shades of anger.

"' _Heart that is broken, beats still unceasing, An ocean of sorrow does nobody drown_ -'" Cole continued closer, huge hat flopping as he swayed to the unheard song.

"I said stop!" The mage's arm wrenched painfully in Trevelyan's grip as she tried to get at the boy, shouting over his words to block them. He kept speaking anyway, sound inaudible as he continued the lines.

"Cole." Cassandra reached out and touched the spirit, drawing him out of the trembling woman's mind.

"' _Within My creation, none are alone.'"_ He finished the verse before falling to silence, the emotion of the mind he'd brushed sending him into confused meditations. Cole always knew which thoughts were important, which ones hurt; he just didn't always understand why they caused pain. If he couldn't comprehend the injury he couldn't fix it and then he was like a child picking at a scab, trying to see the wound so he could see how to heal it too. There were so many pains he had yet to understand.

The Seeker had immediately recognized the Epiphany of Our Lady when Cole uttered the verse. The Maker's first words to Andraste; a gentle, benevolent introduction to The Wellspring of All. Whoever had recited the Chant for young Solace had obviously provided the girl with roots of faith that carried her even now.

"That scripture is always most comforting. I used to reflect upon it often after I lost those dear to me." Cassandra's eyes slid to the mage, noting how completely she'd donned the mask of a Tranquil to hide her thoughts. Practice, habit or nature?

"Circle orphans," Solace offered only a shrug and bitter chuckle, "We'd put a dress on a mop if it meant having something to think of as family."

The Seeker pressed no further, recognizing the fragile edges of emotion barely held behind glass. With a light touch she took the mage's arm, subtly pulling her from the Inquisitor's grip. Trevelyan didn't want to let the girl out of her sight but she relinquished hold, trusting Cassandra's instincts. The Right Hand gently guided Solace the rest of the way to the doors of the throne room, nodding for her to open them herself. The huge double doors swung silently open beneath her fingers and the glory of the song rang out, echoing down the corridors behind. The Chant of Light enveloped them all in its embrace. For Cassandra it was inspiring. For Eve: uncomfortable. For Cole: loud. For Solace, as the Seeker carefully observed, it had the familiarity of a friend.

* * *

Most of Hawke's company had headed for Hightown. Varric had a great deal to discuss with his editor and the woman had recently moved up in the world of Kirkwall districts. The coterie made good coin but Varric's writing made more.

"Braska. These noblemen and their quaint ideas of security," Zevran observed the houses they were strolling past with a critical eye, "Look at that one: adorable with its locks on the windows and spike strips on the ledges. Would such foolishness deter you for even a moment, my thieving friend?"

"Third floor window, second to the left. The spike strip is missing teeth and the right hinges are loose." Elani barely even glanced to the manor in question.

"Delightful! I personally would have chosen the ground floor door on the east side, servants are so helpful about leaving their entrances unguarded." The former Crow countered with his own strategy.

The two elves continued their conversation in that vein, pointing to different mansions and shops and comparing infiltration techniques. A heavily barred door was circumvented through windows. Armed guards were avoided by rooftop approach. The right tools removed glass panels clean from their settings. A massive wall had been compromised with vines, providing nature's own ladder. Varric listened with a smile, wondering what all the nobles in the market were making of the bits they heard. They probably figured the Crows had decided to set up a second office in the middle of their neighborhood.

"Now that one would be a challenge." Elani whistled, stopping short to stare at one massive estate. Varric glanced back over his shoulder and let out a bark of laughter.

"Security on that one's had dozens of upgrades. Thief and assassin proofing is one thing, pirate-proof is nearly impossible." The dwarf grinned fondly at Hawke's manor. Isabela positively gloried in breaking into the place whenever she could. Every time Hawke came home to find the sailor already waiting in her room she'd improve her security and plug the breach. Supposedly, before they left Kirkwall the estate was actually locked down tight enough that Rivaini had to break a window to sneak in. Of course, she claimed it was simply because she'd forgotten her picks.

"It'd take a shitload of tricks, that's for sure," Elani muttered approvingly.

"Perhaps a properly placed bribe as well," Zevran agreed.

"What about it, killer? Think you could get into this pile?" Elani turned to draw Ravenel into the conversation.

"Without even breaking a sweat, my dear." The assassin's honeyed laugh had all the arrogance of Vivienne twisted with the taunt of Isabela.

"Perhaps you would enlighten us? I have always enjoyed learning a woman's technique." Zevran coaxed, smile flashing hints of what he'd learned from many, many women.

"Doors open far more easily for my smile than your fingers, dear man. I do love being invited into my victim's home." Ravenel's smile might have been an exact demonstration of the beauty that had granted her entrance to so very many homes. Innocence and guile were enchanting bedfellows on her lips.

"Not everyone is so cooperative. Certainly there are territories forbidden even to your considerable charms." The elf couched his argument in flattery, the true Antivan way.

"Occasionally. Not everyone drops their guard so easily," de Vici's glance caught Morrigan, expression easing towards a smirk, "In those cases patience is necessary. Study as well. It is a wonderfully exhilarating art. The harder the defenses, the sweeter their fall."

"'Tis a wonder then that anyone is safe with a danger such as yourself on the loose." The witch crossed her arms, posture challenging yet undermined by the glint of mischief curling at her mouth.

"Don't fret, Lady Morrigan. I select only targets of the highest value. I have a preference for what others call impossible."  Ravenel's answer accompanied the subtlest movement of her eyes, hinting at her expert appreciations. There was also an audible caress of her tongue around the apostate's name, a rasp on the 'r's that was like fingers dragging over lace.

"Your pride feeds your ego." Morrigan scoffed, unperturbed by the woman's presumption.

"My experience feeds my skills," de Vici effortlessly corrected, "Test me sometime. I'll impress you."

"Perhaps I may," the witch pretended to ponder the thought, a smirk growing across her lips, "Perhaps I already have."

Varric's mind was racing like an Ostwick greased cheese, trying to construct the ways he'd describe what he just saw. The language would have to be high; artful, arrogant as the two women talking to each other yet still so, so steamy. Lots of metaphors and veiled innuendo. Mind you, they provided the innuendo themselves but they were a bit too subtle for his typical audience. He'd have to throw in a lot of hints. His usual vocabulary clues would help: smoldering, sensuous, maybe a swoon or two? He was so caught up in the mental phrasing that he didn't notice the noble bearing down on them with a death glare.

"Damned mage! Leave us alone! Your blighted kind have done enough here!" The shouted accusation broke whatever silent conversation the assassin and apostate had been continuing, an angered aristocrat spitting at Morrigan. Literally. Varric, Zevran and Elani all held their breath, braced for an outburst of dragon anger. The witch merely glanced at the gob of phlegm near her feet.

"A classic display of Marcher manners. How charming." The apostate sneered, completely unfazed by the scornful insults. She'd born the suspicions and resentment of the entire court of Orlais, this backwater prat wasn't about to upset her.

"You're abominations, every one. If not for the mages our city would still be strong! Andraste help me, chains are too good for your sort. You all belong at the bottom of the sea!" The fool aristocrat raised his hand to strike and froze when a sharp blade sliced through his waistcoat just deep enough to graze flesh. Ravenel had barely moved but the dagger had appeared like magic and her eyes were deadly as the war of nations. Another half second passed and no one – including the aristocrat – could understand why the Hightown street wasn't splattered with intestine and blood. Then Varric saw that Morrigan had caught the assassin's hand, staying the weapon.

"We cannot afford delays. Murder tends to create paperwork." The witch counseled, voice easy and calm but with iron command underneath.

"Odd. In my experience it is just the reverse." Lady de Vici offered a mirthless chuckle in reply, eye not leaving her helpless victim as she weighed her options. Finally, logic prevailed and a flick of her wrist made the dagger vanish.

"Buddy, it's your lucky day," Varric sidled up close to the nobleman, "Shut your mouth and move while you still can."

The aristocrat's hands reached for the torn edges of his clothing, stunned to find his own flesh intact. Speechlessly he turned and strode away, moving as quickly as he could without gathering attention.

"Five silvers says his britches got damp just then." Elani laughed as she watched the awkward, tight-assed escape.

"Antivans are a people of honor. We do not take offense lightly." Zevran nodded support to his fellow assassin's swift reflexes, Ravenel inclining her head slightly in acknowledgment.

The crew turned to resume their trek up Hightown. None of them noticed that Morrigan's hand lingered on de Vici's.

* * *

Blackwall cursed beneath his breath as he strode hurriedly into yet another empty corridor. No sign of life in any direction. One moment he'd been watching Sera talk to a servant and then she was just bloody gone! Fortunately, he had plenty of experience with this phenomenon. The blonde elf wasn't the sort to disappear without a trace, she left a trail of giggling mayhem wherever she went.

He paused and focused all attention to his ears, picking up the faint traces of the Chant, the murmuring of the crowd beyond the walls and then a nearby argument.

"If you cannot be trusted to carry the trays I will keep you in the kitchens! You can go back to scrubbing ovens!" a woman was loudly scolding.

"I swear, mistress! I didn't even touch the petite choux!" an anguished voice replied, clearly near tears.

Blackwall followed the thread of their conversation. Where there was trouble there was bound to be Sera. He found a servant glumly accepting a sharp tongue-lashing from her superior, tray still full of treats but with an apparent gap. The sight of a Grey Warden silenced both as he emerged from shadows.

"You, where did you come from?" he demanded of the serving girl, receiving a trembling gesture of direction in return.

"Ser, what is –," the higher kitchen servant started to demand explanation but Blackwall held up a silencing hand.

"Don't punish her. Someone else is nicking your treats." With that final admonition the warrior trekked purposefully down the corridor.

The door to the kitchen was recognizable only by the tantalizing waft of aromas bleeding from beyond. The hallway was empty of any life. Blackwall paused, eyeing the surrounding décor before he grabbed the heavy door and pulled it open an inch, slamming it immediately shut once more. The noise reverberated along the hallway and in response a pale arm snaked out from behind one curtain, flailing at space where a passing tray should be.

"You really never learn do you, fuzzhead?" Blackwall sighed, catching Sera's arm and yanking aside the concealing fabric. She'd managed to twist herself nearly upside down to hide behind the heavy, velvet folds. All for a few stolen buns. She fell from her perch when the warrior pulled her down.

"Oi! That hurts, beardy!" Sera did her best to wrestle out of his grip but couldn't break free. Blackwall jerked open the kitchen door once more but this time dragged the elf behind him as he stalked down the stairs.

"You aren't a two bit thief in Denerim anymore, Sera. You're Inquisition now. If you're hungry just say so!" With a commanding hand he shoved the blonde into a seat at the cooking prep table. Their very presence had sent the kitchens into an entirely new and frantic activity.

"Takes a bit of the fun out, dunnit?" Sera argued cheekily but didn't object when a plate of food magically appeared before her. She busied herself devouring a meal designed for royalty, murmuring appreciative curses and satisfied moans. The elf could have a hundred lovers and she'd still prefer a good meal. While she was thoroughly distracted in the pleasures of her appetite Blackwall pulled the pouch from her belt.

"What do you think you're doing?! Shite! That's mine!" Sera dropped the chicken she'd been eating and lunged for her property. Blackwall easily held her at bay, shaking the pouch's contents out onto the table.

"Is it? Because these don't seem like your style." The dark haired warrior smirked as he catalogued the spilled treasures. Coins, a noble's jade cameo, three charms, two Chantry figurines, a chevalier's crest and a gold bracelet. Sera had been busy.

"Possession is the shitload of the law and whatsit. Those are my goods so don't you go pocketing any!" Sera reached for her stolen gains but couldn't get past the warrior's defense.

"Less jewelry than usual for you, Sera. Getting bored with shiny baubles?" Blackwall lifted the gold bracelet and examined it carefully in the light.

"I was looking for something specific." The elf begrudgingly admitted, hanging off her ally's staying arm.

"Is that right? And just what was it you were hoping to find in all those noble's pockets?" Blackwall dropped the bracelet back to the table, letting it clatter amidst all the other ill-gotten booty.

"Something to match a necklace. That bangle's close as I could get. Not like Lady Whosit 'Tween My Legs is going to notice the thing's gone." Sera spat back, irritated to be caught with her pants down even though they were up.

"Alright then. You can keep the bracelet. The rest goes to Chantry contributions." Blackwall separated the piece of gold from all the rest of the spoils. Sera's objections were offered in a profound, muttered litany of anger but she didn't actually argue with the warrior. She simply glared at him as he pocketed her stolen treasures. He tossed her the bracelet and she instantly caught it out of air, fingers faster than her arrows. She ducked her head, hiding a smile as she looked at the accessory. No matter all the other shit she'd passed up or lost, that piece was what she wanted.

* * *

Years ago, finding Merrill in the alienage used to be as simple as tracing the string she used to find her way. Then her paths grew too complex and the yarn would tangle and she'd end up lost in some random alley with men snickering at her right before they started howling and clutching at their flaming hair. Eventually, she'd learned the roads of Kirkwall and retired her string. She still got lost often enough, being prone to distraction and kittens would do that to a soul. Now to find the elf her friends had to note the faces of people they passed, looking for the expressions of pleased bewilderment that the Dalish woman seemed to leave on everyone she met.

At this time of day Hawke had expected the mage to be in the center of the alienage, teaching the city elves some obscure herbal knowledge or reciting legends for the children that trailed her like puppies. To think that the girl had once dreamed of saving her clan by restoring their heritage, only to find that her people needed a future far more than a past. She was not, however, in her usual spot by the grand vhenadal tree.

The door to her tiny hovel was cracked open, an invitation to any visitor – friends or not. Isabela and Hawke stepped in to spy Merrill hunched at her table, scribbling over a page in much the same frantic but random rhythms she used for speaking.

"There's my kitten." Isabela cooed fondly, smiling as the elf spun and nearly flung herself into the pirate's arms. The Champion had to press to the wall to keep from getting knocked over by the happy reunion. Merrill and Isabela were as opposite as two people could be and there wasn't even sex in the picture to keep the sailor interested but they were insufferably devoted to each other.

"You're back! You really must warn me when you're coming so I can chase the bugs from the pots and actually cook because I don't usually bother them. They chirp so lovely at night and it's nicer to hear than the men who get in arguments outside," Merrill's enthusiasm was clearly at full force, "All I have right now is water and some biscuits. Not that I'd recommend the biscuits, they were a bit of an experiment and I don't think they came out right. They're supposed to break when you bite them, aren't they?"

"We didn't come for treats, Merrill. We just wanted to see you." Hawke leapt into the brief silence of their friend drawing a breath. The elf finally acknowledged her other visitor and gave the Champion a hug that would've cracked ribs if she didn't have on armor. The mage was slight but her affections could break iron.

"You're all the sweetness we could need. And since when do you bake?" Isabela wandered over to the table, examining the page Merrill had been filling. Her amber eyes turned wicked as she lifted the sheet. The elf squeaked a small protest, reaching to recover her work.

"They weren't for me. I was trying to make them for someone!" Merrill explained, unable to snatch the private document out of the amused pirate's hands.

"So I see. Letters to Sera now, is it? Here I thought I was your only pen playmate." Isabela pouted, smile growing wider as she finished the note. With a fond giggle she passed it to Hawke for perusal.

"I write a lot of people. Varric and you mostly but Fenris will usually send word back from time to time, not that it's much from him. He writes rather like he talks, just enough to let you know he's not dead. That's not what you meant, though, is it," Merrill got lost in her explanation before focusing on what mattered, "Sera wrote me after I left Skyhold and it was very sweet even if it was mostly jokes I can't really explain and some new words I'd never heard before. Arianni says I mustn't repeat them around the children. We've been exchanging letters since and last time she sent a gift so I wanted to send her something back and she really likes sweet biscuits so I thought I could try."

"Sera likes cookies. What a shock." Isabela hummed thoughtfully, shooting a wink to Hawke.

"What? Is that not a normal thing? I thought everyone liked cookies." Merrill objected to yet another innuendo passing over her head. The Champion tuned out as her pirate proceeded to explain particular baked goods and their relation to other delicious activities. The Fereldan turned attention instead to the letter her friend had been writing.

_'_ _Dear Sera,_

_Thank you for the necklace. It's beautiful. Far too nice to wear in the alienage actually so I keep it in my pocket. The one without any holes. But I still worry it might fall out so I keep my hand in all the time to check and it's rather comforting feeling it there but the chain did get tangled on my fingers last week and I nearly ripped the pocket lining trying to get free._ _I don't have anything half as nice to send you but your last letter had such a lovely description of those biscuits you like that I thought I could try to send you some. I'm not sure I could find any with the cream filling you described and they sound sort of messy and probably wouldn't last well in a box. They might sell them in Hightown in the special bakeries! You should come visit and we could go look for them together. A full day of cookie tasting! That does sound fun, doesn't it?_

"Merrill, let me see Sera's last letter." Hawke stopped reading, convinced that the two elves were having entirely separate conversations. The funny part was that her innocent friend followed the string of thought just close enough to almost be replying in kind.

"Nug feathers. Where is it?" Merrill shuffled through papers scattered over her table. She had to crawl underneath to inspect even more fallen pages before finding the one she wanted. A sound of triumph was followed sharply by a head banging into the underside of the table and Merrill crept carefully out from beneath the furniture, rubbing her head. Isabela and Hawke both scanned the page of messy script.

"My my, kitten. You did find yourself a live one, didn't you?" The pirate purred with approval as she read the letter.

Hawke got to the second paragraph and realized she was becoming uncomfortable. Like everyone else that knew Merrill, she was charmed by the elf's innocent sweetness and she didn't particularly want to imagine the picture Sera's words painted. Phrases like 'creamy filling,' 'nibbled edges,' and a ridiculous amount of references to licking were already searing themselves into the back of her mind. The last thing she needed was to think of Merrill in that context.

She'd watched the two elves during their brief time together at Skyhold. They raced around the courtyard playing games and giggling like children. They sat on the roof of the Herald's Rest tossing crumbs to birds (or _at_ birds in Sera's case). The brought down the Maker's own rage from Cassandra when they dressed up all her sparring dummies to look like dolls (whores in Sera's case, again). They taught each other tricks and games, a constant exchange of knowledge and secrets that Hawke could only assume continued on more intimate levels after dark. That was the part she didn't care to think about.

"Cookies my ass." Hawke shook her head and handed the letter back to its owner. She couldn't decide if she wanted to laugh at the unexpected nature of Merrill's romance or just jot down a few death threats of her own for the next post.

"She's an excellent writer, sweets. I'm already craving a good custard cream." Isabela had no such difficulties. She'd liked the crazy archer all along. It probably did wonderfully warm things to her ego, knowing the elf had ended up with a woman so like her brazen mentor.

"Oh! Then we could go out if you like? I know a tea shop not far that isn't too expensive and has all kinds of lovely buns and pastry." Merrill bounced excitedly, utterly oblivious to the flirtatious hint.

"Tea? I think I could use something a bit stronger," Hawke started to leave but had a sudden, horrible thought "The Hanged Man doesn't serve cookies, does it?"

"Not last I checked." The elf frowned, confused that anyone could think of beer and baked goods in the same breath. Whatever lesson Isabela had explained earlier had yet to take root.

"Good." The Champion nodded, turning on her heel to exit. She set a quick pace along the familiar roads, drawn to the promise of bad whiskey and worse ale. If she soaked in enough liquor it might reach her eyes. They needed a good alcohol scrubbing.


	25. Act VI:v Reversal

The Inquisitor had once heard Cassandra describe the full investigation process of the Seekers of Truth. Whatever Varric may have claimed, they stopped just short of physical torture. But only just. And they were allowed every other possible latitude for extracting fact. The Seeker had once told her of an interview she conducted with a rogue Knight Captain that went on for a solid 34 hours until the man collapsed from exhaustion. In his sleep, he confessed everything they needed to know.

Eve was beginning to feel that was the only method that might work on Solace. They'd been gathered in this backroom for nearly two hours now. The Chant had long since finished echoing for the day, nobles and dignitaries sufficiently stroked and dismissed by Divine Victoria's attentions. Now it was just the six of them. Leliana with Solona and Bethany at her sides; Solace with the Inquistor and Seeker Pentaghast at either arm. The mage answered questions with as few words as possible and each time the subject of Tranquility came up there was only stubborn silence. Eve was getting frustrated; she couldn't imagine how Leliana managed to continue smiling.

"I have been talking with the former First Enchanter of Montsimmard," the redhead rested back in her seat, eyes still bright as she studied her quarry, "He tells me that when you were a child you were repeatedly punished for claiming to be friends with demons."

"I had a wild imagination." Solace shrugged off the accusation. She'd turned defensive the moment the Chant ended, her full guard slamming back into place. Her sarcasm deflected questions like a suit of armor.

"Years later your peers accused you of the same activity. That time you denied it but were punished all the same." Leliana continued, watching for the hints of pain that cut like knives beneath the blonde's stubborn glare. Mages weren't quite like other people. They could turn their skin to rock or heal wounds instantly. Circle discipline often had to be creative. And severe.

"Would you like to see the scars?" Solace had caught the faint shimmer of pity in the Divine's crystal eyes. She didn't care for it.

"Punished for telling the truth and punished the same for lying. What lesson did they expect you to learn, I wonder? It seems they only taught you to stay silent, yes?" Leliana didn't miss the twitch of muscle that was Solace holding back words. If she could break that control, she could reach answers.

"I got very good at keeping my mouth shut, Most Holy." The mage's reply was oddly respectful despite the circumstances. She knew the thread she was walking. Anyone with authority issues quickly learns precisely how far they can push.

"A skill which must have served you well for years. One that you feel you must use now. You think me an enemy, as do many mages. Yet, you can see I care a great deal for your kind." The Divine's head tilted to Bethany and Solona beside her.

Her gaze lingered a trifle more affectionately on the Hero but it was only a fraction of a second's indulgence. Eve barely caught the look but she definitely saw Warden Amell's fingers twitch in response, controlling the impulse to reach out and touch. The Inquisitor couldn't imagine how two women who'd been in love for ten years handled letting the Chantry separate them. Her own glance slipped to Cassandra, mentally daring the Maker to even try and take her away. _I'd show them a real Exalted March._ As if the Seeker could read her mind the warrior's eye caught Eve's. Cassandra's brow arched with a twist of scolding amusement, silently urging Trevelyan to focus on the situation at hand. There would be time for other thoughts later.

"'Magic exists to serve man,'" Solace quoted the familiar verse with a bitter laugh, "Which means mages must be servants as well, doesn't it? We're tools, not people. When a smith strikes his thumb he curses the hammer, not himself."

"I wish that to change. I will not restore the Circle of Magi nor the Templar Order. I would see mages protected and equal but above all: Free. I will not withhold the Rite of Reversal but I need you to tell me the truth so we can open the way for others." Leliana was on her feet now, approaching the blonde and daring her to break the penetrative gaze that had locked onto her soul. That look had shattered criminals and royalty alike. When Sister Nightingale turned her full attention to stripping someone's defenses she could slip in through their eyes as easily as an open window.

"It's not going to work." Solace muttered, mournful but awed in the same breath. Trevelyan could practically hear the woman's thoughts beginning to unravel under the mercilessly sincere scrutiny.

"It will if you'll help me." The Divine's voice was calm assurance, reaching out to brush a soothing touch over the mage's arm.

"No, it won't! There's nothing to work with!" Solace drew back, an agony of anger and confusion warring in her face, "You want me to tell you how I broke the Reversal? Give up the bizarre secret to success and the names of the people that helped? I can't!"

"She isn't going to hurt any of them. They'll be safe. We need their help, Solace." Cassandra stopped the mage's retreat, metal gauntlets catching her rising fists and holding her in place. Despite the control of her touch the Seeker's voice was surprisingly gentle.

"No, you don't understand. It won't work because it never happened," the mage's confession choked with frustration, "I never had any Rite of Reversal. I didn't need to! The first one never took."

"What?" The Inquisitor's demand was pure reflex, like wheezing after getting punched in the gut. She could see confusion in every other face in the room, doubts and questions flying silently through the air.

"The Rite of Tranquility. It never worked to begin with." Solace shook her head, avoiding every eye seeking hers.

"It looks to have completed successfully." Leliana pushed the mage's sleeve up, revealing the scorched lyrium brand of a Monstimmard Tranquil. Cassandra released her grip on the blonde's arms, moving to inspect the mark as well. The faint glow on her skin had the recognizable silver light, throbbing with her pulse.

"Damn thing hurt like three licks from a Rage Demon's tongue but when it was over I didn't feel any different. I don't know exactly how being Tranquil is supposed to feel but I'm pretty sure it doesn't include being pissed about being dragged back and wanting to gut the bunch of armored bastards standing all around me." Solace tugged her sleeve down, hiding the brand.

"You led everyone to believe it had worked, that you were Tranquil." The Seeker was partly perplexed but mostly irritated. She didn't like surprises. Eve had learned that the hard way a few months before when she deliberately caught her lover off guard and received a black eye in reward.

"Wake up surrounded by a bunch of Templars that want you dead and you'll get good at acting on the spot too." Solace laughed once more, the same hollow, sarcastic sound that bit more than rang.

"Then you can still perform magic?" Leliana's eyes betrayed that her thoughts had already moved far beyond the immediate conversation. She was working on a larger puzzle and only picking out necessary pieces from this moment.

"No. I guess that part of it worked," the mage frowned, "I can dream and walk the Fade. I can sort of feel the magic still there but it's all locked up. None of my spells work anymore. Not even the fire starter and I really liked that trick."

The Inquisitor could practically hear the gears of the former spymaster's mind. This new riddle was a fragment of the picture she was assembling, she had to find where it fit. The bard glanced between her two mage allies, wordlessly gathering consensus. Wardens Hawke and Amell shared identically pensive but unreadable expressions. It probably ran in the family. With the barest hint of a nod, Leliana gracefully rose.

"This will require some further thought and discussion. We will meet again tomorrow to continue the matter. In the meantime, mage Solace, you are my guest. Please avail yourself of our hospitality. Inquisitor, Seeker." The Divine offered her verdict and bid goodnight, sweeping from the room with both mages urgently following. Trevelyan had a feeling there would be very little sleep tonight for those three. And the sky would be dark with raven messengers come morning.

The Inquisitor silently listened to the departing footsteps. Once she was certain there was no chance of being overheard she turned to the mage. Solace looked like a soldier who'd survived battle but lost the war; spent and miserable, clinging to shreds of defiance and pride.

"You could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you'd just spoken up when we met." Trevelyan sighed, rubbing a tired hand over the knots in her neck. She wanted to be furious at the girl but the shock had been so complete that the only refuge for her sanity was laughter.

"Would you have believed me?" the mage's chuckle confessed that her mental state was no better. Panic destroyed reason when it hit and sucked out emotion as it left.

"Me? Maker, no!" Eve instantly scoffed, "But the Seeker here has a long history of listening to people and finding the truth."

"We still would have brought you to the Divine. That was what she commanded, that was what we had to do," Cassandra clarified firmly. Absolutely nothing the mage might have said or done would have stopped them bringing her to Val Royeaux. She'd only succeeded in delaying the inevitable and pissing off some very powerful women. The sag of her shoulders suggested that she'd finally concluded as much for herself.

"So what happens now?" Solace looked nervously between them, shades of rope and cages in her eyes.

"We leave the Divine to sort out what she wishes. We let servants escort us to rooms and we trust you not to run," the Seeker shrugged, then glanced deliberately to Trevelyan, "Isn't that right, Inquisitor?"

Eve heard the subtle note of threat beneath the question. The mage was Leliana's problem now and Cassandra was ready to be done babysitting.

"You're done trying to escape, right?" She cast a suspicious eye over Solace.

"No reason left to run," the mage confirmed wearily, "Not like I have any more secrets to hide."

"Then yes. That's exactly what we do." The Inquisitor gave a final nod of assent. Habit had her reaching for the blonde's arm as they left the room but the Seeker caught Trevelyan's hand, pulling her away.

"She is not our prisoner anymore," Cassandra reminded her as a servant appeared and escorted Solace to a prepared room, then she leaned in to add quietly, "And I believe we have earned our privacy."

"Privacy, Seeker? In the house of the All-Seeing Maker?" Eve felt a smile chasing away her fatigue. That Nevarran accent purred so deliciously when she dropped to such low tones.

"He is a Father and Creator. Not a voyeur." Cassandra corrected the theological error, eyes growing darker with every passing pace.

"He'll want to be tonight," the Inquisitor murmured under her breath. Her lover caught the words, lips curling into the promise of sin.

* * *

The Hanged Man had a different allure for everyone. For Varric it was the prospect of a room full of people on whom he could test out new card tricks and tall tales. Isabela was called by the variety of indulgences: liquor, sex and a good fight all readily available. Hawke was drawn to the relaxed freedom (and Isabela). Aveline came along to stop crimes (And Isabela). Merrill was just delighted to be in the company of friends. Particularly since Isabela was currently telling her the story of their recent adventures and inventing some spectacularly creative twists in the tea cart. Aveline gave up correcting her after the mage politely asked her to stop ruining it.

The Guard Captain had other worries anyway, keeping one eye on Elani and Zevran across the room. The two elves were entertaining themselves running a hustle on half a dozen men playing Wicked Grace. Elani was the intoxicated beginner, losing at the game in such an adorably befuddled way that none of the other players noticed Zevran palming coins.

"She plays drunk very well." Donnic observed as the blonde burst into a fit of giggles, leaning forward against the table in a way that emphasized her already displayed cleavage.

"I think you'll find it's actually the reverse. She plays well very drunk." Aveline was certain that no one could lose so atrociously unless they were an expert.

"I'd pay good coin to see her play with Isabela." Hawke agreed with her friend. The pirate immediately heard mention of her name, turning to her Champion with a predatory smirk.

"Is that so? And how much would you pay to join in the fun?" the Rivaini slid her hand up the Fereldan rogue's thigh.

"You, me and Cuddles?" Hawke pondered the question, catching the fingers on her leg but not moving them away, "I'm sure we could work out a satisfactory exchange rate. But we'd have to invite Zevran as well, he looks so sad when he gets left out."

"Don't tease a woman, Hawke." Isabela's eyes glinted excitedly, breath laced with amusement and whiskey. She leaned close enough to capture the Champion's lips but pulled away at the last second, laughing all the louder when Hawke's reflexes caught her and dragged her back.

"Maker knows who the tease is around here." She whispered playfully into the pirate's ear before releasing her completely. The sailor let out a soft, pleased rumble; more purr than laughter. She easily turned back to resume her conversation with Merrill, hand remaining comfortably at rest on Hawke's thigh.

Varric enjoyed watching the entertainment that always abounded with the Champion and Queen of the Eastern Seas in one room but his eyes kept darting to the bar. Morrigan had gone in search of a drink other than sour whiskey and Ravenel had instantly followed. Curiosity and suspicion had been steadily chasing each other at faster speeds in his mind for the entire day and now the writer smelled story.

"The dents in this damn mug feel like trying to hang onto an ugly face. I'm gonna get another." Varric rose and crossed the tavern quickly. He found a small space on the corner of the bar counter, lined up his sight straight through another patron's armpit, and settled in to listen.

"Do you really think he can find actual wine in that rat hole he calls a cellar?" Ravenel watched Corff rapidly vanish below the floors, the reek of nervous sweat still lingering in the air. Morrigan had that effect on people.

"Nothing so fine as an Antivan vintage but certainly a bottle that contains what once were grapes. If we're fortunate it will contain little else." The witch's shoulder rose a fraction and fell again, willing to be amused by the effort if not the result.

"Still, it gave me pretext to find you alone," Ravenel slid closer to the apostate, earning a pleased but skeptical glance, "I stole a few moments earlier today and bought you a gift."

"Indeed? What a strange impulse. Are you trying to bribe me for affections?" Morrigan's harsh question was turned inside out by the humor in her eyes.

"I doubt there is enough coin in all Thedas to buy what you would not give, my lady," de Vici laughed and pulled a cloth-wrapped bundle from some hidden fold of her dress, "I wish nothing in return. That is what makes it a gift."

Morrigan's expression was almost a frown, suspicious as she unfolded the cloth. Even in the dim light of the tavern Varric recognized the glint of gold.

"I saw you looking at it when we were in the Hightown shops. It seemed fitting for you." Ravenel quickly explained, smiling confidence concealing all but the slightest tremor of nerves.

The witch held up her present, hands and eyes examining it carefully. Now Varric could see its shape: coiled tail, long neck, a carved motif of wings. _A golden dragon figurine, Nug knuckles! Those things cost a fortune._ The dwarf was no stranger to expensive indulgences but even he was shocked by the rich gift.

"I had thought, perhaps, to buy it for Kieran. For as long as he has been able to speak, he has asked after dragons. I think they are his greatest love." Morrigan was similarly stunned by the gesture.

"Then he and I will have much in common." The Antivan's nerves vanished, relief flooding her manner with calm suave. Before the witch could reply Corff returned, proudly brandishing two bottles.

Morrigan swiftly rewrapped the valuable carving and secreted it on her person, turning to busy herself with questions of vintage and price. Ravenel looked a trifle annoyed by the interruption, obviously eager to hear whatever coy or cutting reply the witch intended. That irritation tripled when another man at the bar seized this as his one opportunity to talk to the beautiful Lady.

 _Well, shit, this should be good._ Varric smirked as he watched the beginnings of catastrophe.

"If you'll permit me, my lovely spirit of beauty," Oh, Maker, he wasn't just drunk; he was a poet, "I must confess I am struck by the shade of your eyes, like two purple cabbages hungry to be devoured by –,"

Whatever he'd intended to say was lost as the man's eyes rolled up in his head. He collapsed, head bouncing off the edge of the bar before falling to a heap on the floor. Ravenel looked curiously at the aspiring flatterer and then noticed Morrigan standing above him. The witch was trying not to look smug and failing miserably.

"So I can't kill nobles in Hightown but you can roll drunks in the taverns?" de Vici crossed her arms with the challenge of an argument. A snore near her feet promised the poet was alive and probably off in lurid, badly worded dreams.

"You are in my care. I did not wish you to strain your stitches laughing at him." The apostate dismissed the accusation with a roll of her magnificently golden eyes.

"Oh really? Always thinking of me, are you?" Ravenel's hooded gaze shouted the meaning her voice only whispered.

"If I were, I would not be likely to share." Morrigan had a natural gift for giving one answer with her words and another with her tone.

"I'm guessing, my lady, that you do not share much." The assassin chuckled, accepting the playful rebuff with a practiced air of aplomb. She reached for one of the bottles of wine and found Morrigan suddenly close in her space, only inches from skin.

"You would be incorrect," the witch replied, "I do not share at all."

Without another word the two women returned to the table of friends. Morrigan was smirking as she opened the wine but Ravenel's mask was cracked with hints of how completely she'd almost come undone.

"That's definitely a chapter." Varric muttered to himself as he sank back into his seat.

"Editor still riding your ass then?" Hawke picked up on the enigmatic comment. The dwarf quickly tucked away everything he had witnessed, holding his mug out for a refill.

"Flaming nugshit. She reamed me so hard I should be sitting on pillows," he groaned his reply, laughing under the complaint. Every time he saw that woman he was amazed to leave with all his body parts intact. She had been after him for almost a year now: the Inquisition, the Inquisition, the Inquisition. A book about the exploits of Lady Trevelyan and her company of the faithful would make more gold than the army of Ancestors digging for a decade. Problem was, he wouldn't be around to enjoy it because Cassandra would kill him.

There was no way to tell the Inquisitor's story without dragging the Seeker into the pages and that wasn't going to happen with her breathing down his neck. Or breathing at all, actually. The book would just have to make his kids a fortune in the future. After he finished it. And got to work on the kids.

"So what trick of charm did you use this time to buy her patience?" The Champion knew the writer well. He never left negotiations without having taken the upper hand.

"Told her I had a new serial in mind. Dark as 'Hard in Hightown' and steamy as 'Swords and Shields.' Danger, romance, magic of all kinds!" Varric reprised his bold sales pitch, excited by his own imagination.

"What's it going to be called?" Hawke clearly enjoyed the description.

"'Corruptions of an Apostate,'" the dwarf grinned, eyes sliding toward the distracted Morrigan and de Vici, "What can I say? I found myself inspired."

"I see," The Champion followed his gaze, biting the inside of her cheek to hold back any laughter, "Just don't forget to include a few twists. Your readers have high expectations of you. They want to be surprised."

"Trust me, Hawke. This one writes itself." Varric beamed, grabbing the bottle from her hand to top both their mugs. The two rogues toasted with silent smiles, happy as ever to be wrapped in private conspiracies.

* * *

Cassandra had never heard a sound more beautiful than Eve's. Not the Chant of Light or blessings of a Divine or any triumph of battle could compare to the sighing, breathy need desperate against her ear. That she could control it with a shift of her fingers, changing the speed and pitch at will, was an intoxicating power. From low, longing moans to sharp, urgent gasps and everything in between; it was all music and Cassandra could coax a symphony from her lover's lips.

The Seeker had been quick to learn the basics of a woman's body, eager to please and impress. After that, however, she set to work deliberately and thoroughly exploring every inch of the Inquisitor, memorizing each touch and shudder and sound that was uniquely hers. She didn't know if these newfound skills would work on any other woman but it didn't matter. She never wanted anyone else. Only this woman, over and over, forever.

The muscles moving against her suddenly tightened, Eve's body clenching as if to rip itself apart. Cassandra held her, watching as the beautiful warrior arched into her touch, head thrown back. The Inquisitor's jaw fought to stay closed, a loud sigh of release hissing through clenched teeth. Then she melted completely into the sheets beneath, into Cassandra's hands. The Seeker cradled her, dragging out each trembling aftershock until there was nothing left but boneless relief. Eve's chest heaved as she panted for breath, finally capturing enough air to speak. Cassandra kissed her parted lips before any words escaped, stroking the still twitching muscles in her cheek.

"You were trying terribly hard not to blaspheme." The Seeker purred when they drew apart, amusement and affection entwined on her tongue. That the woman worried over what might make Cassandra uncomfortable in the Grand Cathedral was endearing.

"With how that felt? My love, I was trying not to die." The Inquisitor shook her head, managing only to chuckle with what breath she had. If Cassandra were not already flushed from their exertions she would've felt herself redden at hearing such praise. She took pride in so many aspects of her life, she never expected pleasing a lover would become one of the most important. _Not until I loved._ Her eyes drank in Eve as she faded into the exhaustion of their night, lids fluttering to fight sleep and remain present but already losing. She traced a finger down the curve of her throat, like a line of poetry, placing a kiss on her collarbone to dot the end.

Even in the sultry night air her skin began to cool, drawing her closer to Eve and pulling up the mangled sheets. Breath warmed her face in the slow rhythm of sleep as she settled into the pillows. She was spent; muscles fatigued, body deliciously languid and satisfied. Her own mind drifted toward dreams, thoughts replaying the indulgent hours of the night. She couldn't tolerate the wanton, animal lust of the pirate and her lover. Nor could she imagine the now chaste affections of the Divine. But this? This was passion that she understood. The Inquisitor had reached out and given her everything she'd wanted but had never dared to expect. _Thank the Maker._ She sighed her prayer, resting her forehead against Eve. _And thank you._


	26. Act VII:i Wake Up Call

Waking up from a blackout was always an adventure. For Hawke it had the intrigue of a mystery waiting to be solved, clues gathered that might explain missing hours. As her mind gradually emerged from dreamless sleep she began cataloging the reports coming in from all over her body. There was a progression to her senses filing complaints on these occasions. First was feeling, then taste and smell, eventually hearing and only after several minutes of calmly absorbing her world through those four would sight decide to kick in.

The soreness in her back and arms might have simply been from a typical night of grappling with Isabela. Except when she clenched her fists there was the stinging pain and stickiness of skinned knuckles. _Bar brawl then._ She smiled for a second but the expression hurt. Exploring the inside of her mouth dredged up the taste of sour alcohol and a lot of copper. Someone had gotten in at least one good blow.

That settled the What of things, now time for the Where. The surface that she was sprawled on was unforgivingly hard and stank of old sweat, piss and vomit. That was roughly half of Lowtown. All of bloody Darktown. She was wet, which might mean she'd passed out in the alley and fallen prey to Kirkwall's eternally soggy coastal weather. Or it could mean she'd been knocked out in the Hanged Man and Corff had simply decided to slosh the floors clean regardless of the fallen patrons.

_Or . . ._

"You have three seconds, Hawke, then I'm opening the cell and letting your hound come in and slobber you back to life." The voice was authority grown weary with patience.

_Of course. Bollocks._

"I didn't leave him with you to sick on helpless drunks and innocents." Hawke groaned, rolling to one side and soaking up more of the puddle she'd been laying in. Freezing cold, too. Didn't matter the time of year, Aveline always had access to some secret supply of pure ice melt.

"I wouldn't. I was going to sick him on you." The Guard Captain didn't sound quite as annoyed as usual. There was more affectionate tolerance in her tone. Maybe Donnic had managed to put a smile on her face between last night's brawl and morning rounds at the tanty?

Aware that the auditory observation meant her ears were beginning to cooperate once more, Hawke turned her attention to the other sounds beginning to drift towards her. Heavy, wet breathing nearby was her beloved Mbari; now an honorary member of the guard. Across the room were expletives that had to be two or more whores continuing a catfight over territory. Off to her left was heavy snoring. To her right, and fairly close, was a low voice humming a song that was very nearly familiar.

Aveline opened the cell and reached down to pull her friend upright. The room spun as the Champion struggled to her feet. Whoever landed that blow to her jaw had definitely done a number. She warily opened one eye, wincing in pain at the early morning light leaking through barred windows.

"Varric is already waiting for us. Apparently, the witch has an idea for getting us to Val Royeaux more quickly. Get a move on, both of you." The guard captain ordered, shaking Hawke by the shoulders to focus her eyes.

"So long as it's not horses. It's too bloody early," the familiar humming tune turned into a groan of protest, "I wouldn't even mount a whore at this ass end hour."

The Champion turned back to the cell to spy Isabela lying on a bunk not far from where she'd been collapsed on the floor. The sailor's voice was thick with broken sleep and sated violence, still musical enough to suggest the amount of liquor coursing happily in her veins.

"Good to know there's a time of day when you aren't a complete slattern. Get up anyway." Aveline didn't even hesitate to grab another bucket of ice melt and toss it on the pirate. Hawke managed to step aside and avoid any of the freezing wetness as it splattered into the cell.

"Andraste's frozen tits poke your damn eyes out, you prig! Want to sod me with an icicle next?!" Isabela shouted and scrambled angrily off the bench, acres of exposed skin immediately flush with goosebumps. If anyone's nipples were going to poke out an eye, it wasn't Andraste's.

"Excellent, sounds like you're well awake," the guardswoman tossed her bucket aside with a smile, "Now would one of you get that elf roused? Two buckets of water and the snoring still hasn't stopped."

Hawke looked over to the adjacent cell and was momentarily confused. It looked empty. Then she tracked the loud, nasal breathing to the shadows under a bunk. She could just make out a head of dirty blonde hair – an unfortunate combination of color _and_ recent hygiene.

"Maker's balls," Isabela rolled her eyes and went into the opened cell to poke at the unconscious elf, "Come on, Cuddles. Can't show the world your ass if you aren't up and about."

"What happened last night anyway?" Hawke tested her balance and motor control by strolling the room, trying to look casually curious. The movement of the floor had reduced to an occasional, gentle sway.

"That will take several days and statements from nearly a dozen people to figure out," Aveline folded her arms, nailing the rogue with her most restrained glare of judgment, "It seems three fights broke out in quick succession. One of the Wicked Grace players realized he was being conned, two drunks tried to stop Morrigan on her way upstairs to a room and some righteously suicidal idiot objected to Isabela's tongue down your throat."

The explanation jarred loose a few broken pieces of memory from Hawke's inebriated, brain damaged state. Three fights; that sounded right. There had been so much noise all at once . . .

_Varric had gone to take Merrill home. The Champion was dimly aware of shouting behind her and tables and chairs being violently pushed aside but none of it mattered because the Rivaini captain had slid across her lap and filled her mouth with the taste of oceans and whiskey. Warmth wrapped around her, coiled strength daring her to try to move beyond the grip of fingers threaded through her hair and Hawke had no inclination to resist. She felt a taste like the bite of magic behind her teeth and the only part of her mind that wasn't either drunk or intoxicated on Isabela's touch tried to warn her that there was currently only one mage in the room. An apostate, to be exact. That voice of reason was erased when she felt a hand guiding her own to leave its purchase on fabric and grip flesh instead._

_Then the pleasure was suddenly ripped away and some massively muscle bound man who had to be compensating for a tiny dick was shouting at her, quoting the Chant. The Champion would've simply laughed at him, far more entertained than offended by his stupidity, except he'd broken the kiss by grabbing the back of Isabela's tunic. Hawke felt her eyes narrow to pinpricks of focused vision, blocking out everything except the red faced fury that had dared laid a hand on her pirate. He was knocked off his feet the moment she was on hers, a fist sending him skidding across the floor. The first throw of a punch was a battle cry that invited all comers and violence rapidly spun in every direction across the tavern, followed by a burst and chill of magic that did nothing to slow the widespread chaos._

"Maker, how many got killed?" Hawke ran a hand over her face, realizing that last night had been a bigger bollixed knuckle-duster than she thought.

"Four dead. No one is sure who killed each. Thirty-four injured, not including the dozen more that hurt themselves trying to run away." Aveline ticked off the casualty report.

"That's not bad. Must've ended before it could spill into the streets like usual." The Champion sighed in relief. A typical scrap in the Hanged Man could end up spreading clear to the docks and sink a ship if no one came to break it up.

"Lady de Vici and Morrigan were well-behaved enough to withdraw once the first bottles started flying. Two of the casualties _are_ those two drunks but the surgeon can't tell if they died from blows, poison or magic," the Guard Captain's smirk hinted that she thought it was a combination of all three, "But getting the rest of you out proved a bit more trying."

Hawke couldn't remember Aveline in the fight at all. Did she vanish to the sidelines when the violence broke out? That wouldn't be like her. Besides, she had Donnic; between the two of them they could subdue half the bar. She cast her mind about in the gaps of her memory, trying to remember how the brawl ended. The last thing she could recall was Isabela laughing as she spun away from a dagger, Zevran surprising the soldier who'd managed to get hold of Elani's throat and then herself, feeling a hand on her arm tugging her around. She'd turned and met only a sudden blow, world filling with copper and darkness but not before there was the tiniest glimpse of red.

"You knocked me out?" Hawke demanded, laughing as she brushed a hand up her jaw. No wonder it was still hurting this morning!

"To stop a fire: remove the fuel. I learned years ago that the fights end quickly once you and Isabela aren't there to make things worse." Aveline justified herself with a small shrug. That was why the woman was being so patient this morning. She was apologizing!

"Felling a Champion in one blow! Nice work. Next time let's see what happens when I'm sober." Hawke grinned, punching her fellow Fereldan in the shoulder.

"When you're sober I only _want_ to hit you. It isn't actually necessary." Aveline smiled back, comprehending that her silent apology had been accepted and forgiven.

"Where's my shit?!" The sudden shout from Elani announced that Isabela had finally managed to wake the elf.

"Easy, sweets. Get yourself wound any tighter and you'll choke yourself with it." The pirate pointed to the satchel strap that was tangled around the thief and clenched in both hands. The blonde struggled to unravel herself, sitting upright and then groaning at the dizzy sensation.

"I take it she also got a taste of your pacification?" Hawke's sympathy for the elf couldn't quite overwhelm her amusement as she mocked Aveline's methods.

"I decided it would be best to remove her as well after she accidentally knocked out Zevran," the Guard Captain confirmed, completely unapologetic.

"It wasn't an accident!" Elani cursed beneath her breath, faced buried in both hands as she waited for the world to right itself, "Bloody twat, I told him we should've pulled out after the first 50 silvers."

"Zevran does love taking extra risks. He once introduced me to this delicious game of – OW!" Isabela rubbed the already dark bruise on her arm that Aveline deliberately struck once more.

"And this, Hawke, is the company you're going to escort into the Chantry's Grand Cathedral?" The Guard Captain shook her head as she looked over all three of her released prisoners.

"No, Aveline. This is the company that's been _invited_ ," the Champion's lips smirked with relish on the word, "Blessings be on the Maker's Divine!"

"I always knew Leliana would revolutionize the cloisters. Either from the top or bottom it hardly matters; she's a stunningly talented sister." The pirate's voice was warmed with memories, a note of nostalgic pleasure filling Hawke's mind with ideas.

"You really are going to have to tell me more about Sister Nightingale sometime, 'Bela. I have a feeling you've been holding out on me." The Champion's brow twisted with the same suspicion as her smirk.

"Only with stories, sweets, I promise." Isabela grinned, a flash of fang matching the wicked spark in her eyes.

"We're leaving. Now. Before I decide to knock both of you out again." Aveline growled, pushing the two women apart and forcing them towards the door.

* * *

The Hero of Ferelden had faced dragons and archdemons without flinching. The damned Reverend Mother glaring at her as she moved to leave the throne room could bloody well choke on the fat end of Hessarian's blade. She wanted to check on Kieran. Morrigan had left the boy in her care and while the witch wouldn't mind her son being left with guards and servants, she'd turn the entire Cathedral to ash if he was made to sit through Chantry ritual. Solona tried to see him every day and this felt like a good time. She needed a break from the Chant. Not the ceremony or song itself but from trying to sit so still when her thoughts were bouncing off the insides of her skull like blind nugs in a cave.

The discussions and research with Leliana and Bethany had gone into the early hours of the morning. She'd fallen asleep on top of the Circle records she'd been meant to study and woke at dawn with pain in her neck and paper dust in her nostrils. Leliana was still awake even then, waiting at the balcony for the first of her messenger birds to return. Her cousin had already made tea (and the day's potions) and they all three drank in silence, pondering the next step for the Divine's plans.

In order for the Unification to work it had to be everything at once. Leliana had decided on a divide-and-conquer strategy, a sweeping move that would embroil the Chantry in so many different arguments that no single voice of united objection could rise. Disbanding the Circles and Templars, opening the hierarchy to other races, decriminalizing apostasy and welcoming mages; Andreasteans across Southern Thedas all supported or protested every one of these reforms. There was no middle ground. There would be no majority.

Theoretically, Leliana could use the Andraste's Children argument to convince the faithful to unite into one family under the Maker. Realistically, after the horrors of the war, the people – the mages _themselves –_ needed to see a symbol of peace between Chantry and magic. The Rite of Reversal promised to be that gesture. Unfortunately, the only other mage known to have reversed Tranquility was dead and Wynne's son ( _Maker keep her soul_ ) was no closer to reproducing Pharamond's success.

Which left Solace. Which was why the Hero was worried.

The mage had a lyrium brand but clearly wasn't Tranquil. She claimed the Rite never worked but then she couldn't use magic and yet she wasn't severed from the Fade! How was all of that even possible? The conflicting facts chased each other around the Warden's thoughts. It didn't help that the blonde's behavior was just as confusing. The Hero had watched Solace bow her head reverently as the ceremonies began, mouth subtly moving in time with the opening devotions. Yet, only minutes before that she'd observed the mage flirting with two lay-brothers and a serving girl. That she could make all three blush simultaneously rather undermined the idea of a spiritually devout woman. As did the breathtakingly creative profanity the servants reported she'd flung at them on trying to drag her from bed this morning.

 _She's young. Everyone's confusing at that age._ Solona threw her own mind back to her life a decade before. The blonde couldn't be much older than the Warden had been when she underwent Harrowing. The history of her entire life could be divided by that day and the events that followed. Up until then her only concerns were mastering spells, gaining more liberties in the tower and indulging in a bit of amusement with some of the prettier apprentices. She knew nothing of the Blight or the chaos that was sweeping over Ferelden until it erupted on all sides and sucked her in. After that, all of life revolved around a quest to defeat the Darkspawn and save the world - conveniently also allowing her to pursue a personal mission to flirt with every woman she met. What was it? Two in Redcliffe, the cute elf in the Dalish camp . . . _Nothing but hormones and invincibility back then._ She sighed, grateful that Leliana had come into her life and patiently subdued those selfish impulses. Perhaps it truly was the Maker's will. The bard became her anchor in the madness.

The Hero was lured from her nostalgic musings by a flash of movement to her left. She spun, ready to find yet another witless fanatic but spying only Alistair. _Just witless then._ The teasing insult in her mind was far more affectionate than the hundreds that had come from Morrigan's lips in their time together. Solona hadn't even noticed him leave the throne room before her. The King was leaning on the balcony balustrade, gazing to the gardens below and lost in his own thoughts so completely that he didn't hear her approach.

She followed the direction of his eyes to a bench near the rows of crystal grace and dragonthorn. At first all she could see were the backs of servants and a few guards but then one shifted and she felt a jolt of realization. _Maker's mercy._ Kieran was contentedly reading one of his massive volumes of lore, expression studious but fascinated. He found some obscure detail extra delightful and his smile turned into a short laugh. The sound made Alistair flinch.

"Have you ever met him?" The Hero gently announced her presence, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"Briefly. I mean, we were introduced. Sort of," Alistair stumbled over the explanation, backtracking to find the actual answer, "I visited Skyhold on official business and Morrigan was there. It was a surprise to see her. Seeing him was downright shocking. No tentacles or fiery breath or anything."

"Yes, but did you actually speak to him?" Solona could only imagine her friend's horror at being confronted not just by the woman he'd so intensely disliked but also the offspring of their forced intimacy. Did the resentment he felt for the witch bleed into his feelings for the child? If that were the case, why would he be here watching the boy?

"No, I didn't. I had only wanted to check with Morrigan. To be sure, you know," The King was straining to sound casual about the subject, "He doesn't know who I am. He never said a word. Just stared at me like he was turning me inside out."

"He does that a lot. I think he knows it unnerves people, definitely something he got from his mother." The Hero smirked, familiar with the exact gaze Alistair described.

"Clearly." His sarcastic smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

"He's the best of her, Alistair. He has her wit, intellect, curiosity and innocence. He also has much of you but you'd know that if you'd had the balls to talk to him." Solona shook her head and marched away from her friend.

She might have felt sorry for him being exposed to the sudden shock and scrutiny of meeting at Skyhold. She could even pity him for the sadness in his eyes as he looked down at his son now. But he was on the balcony looking down, rather than below at the boy's side. Kieran didn't need to know who his father was; the only fact Alistair and Morrigan had ever agreed upon with absolute harmony. That did not mean the King couldn't have spoken to him when he had the chance. Kieran was quiet when they met? That was normal for a child. But Solona couldn't excuse Alistair for not being a man.

The Hero managed to push down her fuming irritation as she walked into the garden. The sight of the witch's son peacefully reading did much to still her own mind. The servants bowed, retiring to more private distances. A quick nod from the guards confirmed there'd been no danger anywhere near the child. Kieran sensed the change of movement around himself and looked up, smiling to greet one of the few people who'd been allowed to be part of his life.

"Good book? Wait – I know, they're all good." Solona corrected herself as she joined him on the bench. The boy devoured literature with the same thirst for knowledge that defined his mother.

"Not all," Kieran corrected her correction, "Some are lies. Some are foolish. Some try to take knowledge out of the world instead of bringing it in."

"Ah, you inspected the Chantry library today, didn't you?" the Warden laughed, recognizing the glint of mischief in his tone that was just begging to get into an argument. Another trait he'd inherited from Morrigan. He never actually argued with his elders but he could be trusted to contradict them when they were blatantly wrong. That he did so politely and without any trace of pride made it easier for adults to accept. The boy excelled his mother's social graces in every possible way. Solona hesitated to give credit for that to Alistair's blood; he'd probably just read a few books on etiquette.

"This is 'A Study of the Southern Draconids,'" Kieran showed her the cover of the tome, "Did you know that varghests prefer to take prey back to the nest live? Do you think it tastes better?"

"I did not know that. Fortunately, I've never had one dragging me by my leg home for supper. And I can't imagine anything tastes good after being in a huge lizard's mouth for miles." Solona smiled and settled in. Once Kieran got going on his favorite subject there was nothing to do but listen and enjoy the show. She'd picked up more than a few tips for future dragon battles just by letting him list his encyclopedic knowledge. Besides, his whole face lit with enthusiasm as he spoke; it would be a crime to stop him.

The dark haired child born with the soul of an Old God was not simply a 'normal boy' as his mother claimed. He was far more enjoyable than any other child the Hero had ever had to be around. He often asked her about magic and particular spells, or questioned details from Morrigan's stories of the Blight. During many of their conversations Solona forgot she was even speaking to a ten year old. That fact was brought painfully back to her attention once when she began telling the boy of her adventures trying to chase down Morrigan. The Hero probably could've gotten away with her story if she'd left out the Desire Demons. Mention of the scantily clad malicious spirits and their various temptations got her knocked out. To this day she still wasn't sure if Morrigan had used a spell or just hit her with a staff. Either way, she woke with a bump on her head.

"You're not thinking about dragons." The animated lecture suddenly halted. A rush of guilt hit Solona, realizing her mind had wandered. She focused back on the boy and found his eyes patiently observant, face free of any accusation.

"I'm sorry, Kieran, I let myself get distracted. I was thinking about your mother." Solona immediately apologized. She knew better than to try to lie, not after the first dozen times he called her out on it.

"Will she be back soon?" His question struck the difficult balance between being excited by the prospect but not so hopeful as to be disappointed. Witch and son had been separated a number of times in his short life but he always knew she'd come back, just as she always knew he was safe.

"I think so. Have you been lonely without her?" The Warden slid one hand through the side of his hair, ruffling it into the messy shape that reminded her of black feathers. He smiled at the familiar gesture, recognizing the silent offer of comfort it implied.

"I miss her but I'm glad she left me with friends." Kieran clarified his answer by leaning against the mage's side. The Hero instinctively wrapped an arm around his shoulders, letting him settle in to resume reading his book. She was glad of his distraction since she wasn't entirely sure she could swallow the emotion that had swelled up in her throat. Warmth and trust radiated off the boy as easily as intelligence but it always surprised Solona when it encompassed her.

 _Alistair is an ass._ The conviction had her shaking her head and hugging the boy closer. He was one of her dearest friends but Maker, what a twit sometimes! Kieran was probably better off without him. He'd have only gotten in Morrigan's way and messed up the wonderful work she'd already done raising her son. She had softened into a true mother. How Morrigan knew to be gentle, protective and nurturing after growing up under Flemeth was an utter mystery. Perhaps the shape of a family didn't have to be determined by what you came from but by what you wanted it to be? _I'll have to hope so._ The Warden thought of her own 'family' of friends. None of them had come from anything you could want.


	27. Acts VII:ii Navigating Adventure

When Aveline mentioned that Morrigan had a way for them to get to Val Royeaux quickly by sea, Hawke had simply thought she'd found a swift ship. She'd grossly underestimated the woman's creativity, power and eagerness to return.

"She's going to what?!" the captain of the clipper demanded, loud enough that Hawke could hear the panic in his voice before she'd even stepped off the gangplank. She spied a man in a heavily embroidered long coat facing Morrigan and Varric, eyes bugging as though he'd been asked to complete the voyage naked and strapped to the prow.

"It isn't like she's going to summon a typhoon, Salty. It'll just be a little nudge, help nature along, as it were." Varric was doing his best to calm the man before he could scream for the passengers to be thrown overboard.

"But, using magic!" The sailor was backing away from both of Hawke's allies. He was unaware that the Champion now stood directly behind him, at least until he bumped into unyielding armor.

"Tis a simple question: do you wish to get to Val Royeaux in half the usual time or would you prefer I linger on your ship for twice as long?" Morrigan's superior gaze turned deadly. The very threat of her presence sparked all kinds of unholy fears, she hardly needed to elaborate. The captain's imagination was supplying horrors beyond anything the Witch might actually entertain. For long.

"A magic tailwind? Can you sustain that all the way there?" Hawke knew the apostate had tremendous power – dragon and all – but there was a limit to every mage's reach in the Fade. That was the entire reason lyrium was sometimes necessary to continue spells.

"Alone I could not. Fortunately, I shall not have to." Morrigan's chin jutted in a direction past the Champion's shoulder. She turned and spied a petite figure leaning over the ship rails, becoming dangerously unbalanced before Isabela raced over and hauled her back. The Rivaini kept a protective grip on Merrill's shoulder as she led her over to the knot of conversation.

"I convinced Daisy to come along with us," Varric answered Hawke's unspoken question, "What with so many representatives from the Inquisition hanging around the Grand Cathedral she shouldn't have a problem hitching a quick ride to Skyhold."

"And then a lovely, slow one after she's there." Isabela smirked, enjoying the flush that bloomed in the elf's cheeks. Blush, yes; deny, no.

"Two mages? That's double the bad luck! No! I know your war is over and all that shit but I'm not having my ship sunk in the Waking Sea just because some wind demon gets carried away!" Captain Salty's protest was full of angry bluster.

"There're no such things as wind demons." Merrill corrected helpfully, happily oblivious to the seaman's glare.

"But there are mages. And assassins. And a hungover Champion," Hawke took a menacing step forward, a sharp edge of metal flashing in her eyes, "Which do you think could kill you quicker?"

The captain instinctively stepped back. That only put him closer to Morrigan and he flinched, leaping away. A demon might wreck his ship but there was always the chance of surviving that sort of catastrophe. The dangerous eyes surrounding him now promised he'd have no such luck with them.

"Alright! Fine! Bugger it all and blow the ship ashore!" He threw up his hands in surrender, storming away to yell orders to his crew and perhaps say his last prayers.

"With magic winds how long do you imagine the voyage will take?" Hawke turned back to the apostate, only now allowing her own skepticism to show.

"We'll certainly arrive by nightfall. Sooner if you care to throw extraneous crew overboard." Morrigan was only ever half-joking when it came to such suggestions. The Champion noticed several crewmen around them pale and rush to get out of sight.

"I don't think any of the men could be considered surplus." Hawke shook her head, noting the speed and devotion of all the men preparing the ship to set sail. They all knew their lives now depended on it.

"I was thinking of the captain." The  barest hint of malicious amusement twisting a corner of the apostate's lips before she moved away. A regal gesture demanded that Merrill follow and the remaining three friends watched the mages depart.

A blood mage and a witch. What a combination of magic those two might be! Assuming they could even properly combine. Morrigan was all smooth danger, unbreakable discipline and deadly control. Merrill was more a natural form of chaos: instinctive, impulsive, explosive and probably several other '-ives' that the Champion's vocabulary didn't cover. Hawke could still feel how close she came to getting a frozen spider fang lodged in her eye when Merrill let loose a wonderfully effective but poorly timed burst of spells. So long as Morrigan could keep the elf focused and Merrill didn't let the Witch panic her into losing the thread of her magic, they'd be great. Otherwise . . . Salty wasn't so wrong about what might happen to the ship.

Noting that Isabela had retired to lean on the railing Hawke moved to join her. The Rivaini captain was gazing at the distant ocean, amber eyes nearly as far away as the horizon. Sailing as passenger on someone else's ship would never be the exotic woman's first choice. But it didn't matter the vessel or who manned the helm, she loved being on the sea. The Champion pushed aside a few windblown, ebony strands so she could clearly see the sailor's profile.

"You're really not going to try to tell Salty how to set sail? I'm not even a sailor and I've already seen him do half a dozen things wrong." Hawke teased, glancing back over her shoulder at the scrambling crew and unfurling sails.

"He has his way, every captain does. And none of us listens worth a damn to each other. Telling a captain what to do with his ship would be like getting in the middle of a marriage." Isabela shook her head adamantly, mocking horror at the very idea of such presumption.

"'Bela, you've been the ruin of more husbands and wives than a brothel's threesome special." The Champion pointed out with a laugh.

"Only when one of them invites me to, sweet thing." The sailor corrected with a wicked smile.

It was just two months ago that a man had come running up to them on the streets of Denerim, professing his undying love for the pirate and regaling her with the years he'd spent hunting for her. It took several minutes before the Rivaini woman could place him as one of three blokes she'd entertained on a particularly fun night at the Pearl. The bit about him leaving his wife was when Hawke caught him by the collar, cuffed him twice and then demanded his wife's address. She and Isabela went and personally made sure the abandoned woman was comforted. The Captain even apologized twice – the second time far more thoroughly.

The ship swayed into open water and the first gust of magic-laced air lurched them forward, masts groaning along with the strain. The clipper's prow scythed through the waves, keel bucking as natural resistance was broken by building speed.

"She's in for the hardest ride of her life." Isabela smirked, looking up at sails so swollen they might give birth.

"Something tells me Morrigan isn't one to be gentle." Hawke agreed, glancing to the helm and spotting the two mages, garments billowing in supernatural wind.

"Poor Lady de Vici. Perhaps someone should warn her." The pirate laughed as she looped an arm around the Champion's waist, drawing her closer to her side.

"She's an assassin. I think she can handle it." The other woman comfortably mirrored the hold as they both leaned against the railing, content to watch waves erupt and fall away from the plowing hull.

Hawke tried to never think too hard about how often she wanted to reach out and hold her lover with death's own grip. Isabela was addictive. Not just in bed but at all times. The throaty lilt of her laugh, the warmth of her touch, the scent of her skin, the strength of her hands transposed against the softness of her lips, the words that spilled from her mouth and tangled with meanings in her eyes; she was a walking enchantment.

If she were a demon Hawke would have surrendered her soul completely years ago, happy as a shell of a human if it meant being filled with this woman instead. But Isabela wasn't a demon. She was a raider; a rogue and a pirate. A honey-tongued, sharp-daggered seductress who couldn't care less whether victims fell to her wiles or blades; and the Champion of Kirkwall sometimes thought she might die of love for the woman. Then something small would happen, like Isabela's amused confession two days before, and Hawke would remember she wasn't the only one. The pirate had fallen for her Fereldan Champion just as hard. It was an unspoken promise in the way the Rivaini sailor constantly reached for her first, a silent assurance. Other lovers said the words more often but Hawke could feel them every time a hand touched her face or arms pulled her close.

The Champion turned slightly; face brushing the blue bandana and resisting the tickle of unruly hair against her cheek. She felt the brief pause in Isabela's breathing, the pirate waiting for some teasing caress or word. Seven years since their first time together and Hawke could still break the woman apart with just her lips. _Mind you, she did vanish for three._ The Champion shook the accusatory thought away, repeating once more her silent prayer of thanks that in the end Isabela had returned and chosen to stay. She felt a bubble of emotion threatening to burst in her throat, guaranteed to overwhelm her tongue with words and feelings. She focused instead on the hand gripping her waist and the smell of spices and salt filling her nose.

"If we get to Val Royeaux tonight, you aren't going to be able to walk tomorrow," she whispered, feeling the responding vibrations of shuddered laughter. Hawke could've said worse; she could've promised the most luridly detailed sex act that had ever been banned from a brothel. It still wouldn't have disguised the emotion underneath.

"You always know what I like to hear," Isabela purred back, answering the sentiment more than the words. The slightest twist of her neck and Hawke was rewarded with a gentle kiss, brief but sweet with promise. The touch wasn't full of their usual intensity, the wordless guarantees of sweat-soaked skin and screaming. It was a private exchange of affection and the Champion savored it. Much as she savored the comfortable intimacy they resumed, side by side at the railing to watch the approaching horizon.

* * *

"Dragon claws! My roll." Iron Bull kept his smug victory to a dull roar. The fives vanished into the Inquisitor's hand as she bit back a mild curse.

"Just throw, diva." Trevelyan rolled her eyes and passed the dice across to her friend. The small cubes were unnaturally heavy, carved from the bones of the first dragon they'd slain together. She'd made a gift of the dice to Bull and could always count on him to be carrying them wherever the mercenary went. The massive Qunari paw shook out and tossed the pieces across the floor, white bone and black dots dancing to a standstill. Twelve.

"Double nug tits! You lose!" Eve grinned and snatched up the handful of coins in the kitty.

"Better make yours good, boss. You talk more trash than those poor sods cleaning up Haven." Bull's voice growled with laughter like a semi-dormant volcano.

"Bad taste, Bull." Eve tried to give him a reproving frown but barely managed an ironic smirk. He was right, after all. She rolled the two carved dragon bones, feeling the hint of breathless suspense that always awaited their halt.

"Oh! And coming out just like that! You and Dorian should be so lucky." The Inquisitor shouted triumphantly, laughing as the seven black dots stared happily up at her.

"I notice something funny about the way you play, you know." Bull pointed out suspiciously.

"Most losers do." Eve shot back, grabbing the carved bones back up.

"You're right handed," The Qunari had seen more than enough of her handling of a sword (and bottle) to know exactly which side she favored, "But you roll with the left."

"Guess I've got a little elf magic left on this side." Trevelyan grinned and threw the dice once more. Three. Blighted bones.

"Ha! Your anchor must be wearing off." Bull swept up the losing roll and shook them in his massive fist.

"What sort of example does it set when the leader of the Inquisition sneaks away to play games of chance on a holy occasion?" the exotically curled accent tickled Eve's ear, the patience and humor of the words bringing a small smile to her lips. Josephine was always the epitome of tact.

"Rolling bones isn't about chance, Ambassador. It's about skill." Iron Bull corrected, dice spilling from his hand to roll across the gallery floor.

"Twin tits! You lose!" The Inquisitor crowed, grabbing up her coin and the cubes, "If anyone objects, Josephine, you can just point out that we're doing the Maker's work."

"Oh?" The Antivan woman cast a skeptical glance around the empty balcony where the two warriors had settled into gamble.

"We're supervising the Divine's security detail." Bull confirmed, settling back with a smile that was like an earthquake's scar.

"From here? How –?" Before Josephine could finish the question there was a noise from overhead. A man's scream was cut abruptly short with a puncturing wetness and thud.

"Somethin' in your eye, is it?" Sera's triumphantly maniacal giggle reached them before her voice grew louder, "Oi! Got another one!"

"Very good, Sera," Trevelyan leaned back to yell at the ceiling, "This time make sure you roll him off the side of the roof that doesn't have people standing below!"

"Pssh. Fussy fussy. Bodies dropping out of the sky might be good for this lot," the elf's muttering could be tracked as she stomped over their heads, "Get them saying their prayers more."

There was the scraping noise of something heavy being dragged across the roof tiles and then suspenseful silence that ended in a sound like a massive watermelon bursting open on cobbles. Eve glanced up at Josephine and felt a momentary twinge of regret at the woman's paled expression. She was etiquette, negotiations and politics; not murdered assassins and exploding corpses.

"You put people on the roofs?" The ambassador rallied beautifully, tucking away any personal revulsion and focusing only on the business at hand.

"All our melee fighters are inside the Cathedral or moving through the crowd. The long range people need space and a clear line of sight." Bull explained the strategy as if it were the most natural thing in the world. No one in their right mind would ever put Sera down in the courtyard crowd.

"Dalish is on the other wing," The Inquisitor nodded to the opposite roofline, "And Dorian _was_ clinging to the friezes above the grand entrance but Sebastien had to go pry him down. Fear of heights, I guess. Magister Pavus really does not care for having his feet off the ground."

"Funny. He likes it well enough with me." Bull's lopsided grin matched the uneven scars of his face.

"That'll be two silvers." Trevelyan snickered but promptly lifted an ornate box that had been resting at her side.

"Worth it." The Qunari didn't hesitate to toss in the requisite coins.

"Is that one of the Chantry's contribution boxes?" Josephine eyed the delicate filigree of the coin chest. The Inquisitor nodded confirmation.

"It is, matter of fact. Don't worry; we'll be putting it back a lot heavier than we took it. Swear words are a silver each, sex jokes are two and getting caught with your pants down – or any variant thereof," Eve pointed a sharp finger at Bull, "Is a sovereign. We figured this might be the only way to keep everyone in line here under the Maker's eyes."

"I see. And do these monetary punishments encourage our people to better behavior?" Josephine's curling smirk suggested she already knew the answer.

"Flaming tits, no!" Bull laughed and tossed a silver into the box, "But it teaches them not to get caught."

"I'm sorry, Ambassador. I'm sure you wanted something other than to listen to our endless wit." The Inquisitor managed to stifle her own chuckles and force her face into something resembling maturity. It wasn't easy. Particularly once she spotted the inexplicable flush of color rising in the Antivan's cheeks. How a woman that blushed as easily as Josephine managed elaborate political negotiations (or won so frequently at Wicked Grace) mystified them all.

"I was, actually, wondering if you'd seen Ser Blackwall? The ambassador's preciously shy expression should've been captured and framed, just so every sneaky cheat and bullshitter in the Inquisition could see what actual innocence looked like. The woman was cultured, shrewd and erudite but there was an impossible naiveté about her romantic inclinations. She made Cassandra seem cynical. _Cassandra is cynical. She just also happens to like poetry._

"I saw him a few hours ago; he said he was heading into the city. He looked rather like a man on a quest. Out to find flowers perhaps?" Trevelyan's seriousness was rapidly bleeding away, suggestion tugging at her smile. The bark of scoffing laughter from her Qunari friend was an open contradiction.

"Shaving kit is more like it. Honestly, Ambassador, if you know you're that ticklish you should warn a man!" Bull waved away the Chantry box before Eve could lift it, "Not a joke, Boss. Half the floor probably heard her laughing last night. That does things to an ego, you know."

"Sodding balls!" Sera's head appeared upside down over the edge of the roof, "Was everyone in the place having a toss last night?!"

"You mean everyone other than you?" The Iron Bull retorted, his own satisfied grin a boast in itself. The elf flipped a rude gesture, sticking her tongue out for good measure. Bull replied with a loudly blown kiss.

"There's the Divine as well, Sera. At least you're in good company." Trevelyan decided to step in before the two devolved into their more graphic banter.

"Right, hobnobbing with Andraste's own Most frigging Holy. Great. Like a glare from her isn't enough to turn your tits inside out. That's sure to make me all bloody warm and fuzzy tonight, innit?" Sera's rolling eyes vanished back above the roofline, stomping feet punctuating a continued litany of curses.

"Why did she not have to pay for all that?" Josephine looked curiously between the two warriors and the contribution box.

"She put in a sovereign this morning. She's used up," Trevelyan listened until the noise from overhead finally stopped, "Fifty-nine of it so far."

"An that's shite too!" Sera's shout rounded it off to an even 60.

* * *

Everyone on Captain Salty's clipper had reason to thank the Maker when they docked safely at Val Royeaux. For the crew it was because they arrived safely and in one piece. For Hawke's friends it was the fact that hours of cruising along the top of waves like a rock skipping over water had left them only mildly nauseated. For Salty himself, it was like hearing the Maker's own voice of blessing part the clouds when the Champion shouted for all her friends to disembark.

They didn't have to be told twice. Merrill eagerly skipped down the gangplank ahead of Varric, Isabela sauntering behind. Zevran was keeping a good distance from Elani as the thief still hadn't forgiven his greed getting them in trouble. Lady de Vici seemed torn between keeping close to Elani for the record book – now that they were so painfully close to the end of their duties –and staying near Morrigan as had become habit. The Witch strode purposefully ahead, nearly overtaking the Champion before they were all brought up short at the end of the pier.

"No entrance permitted. The city is overcrowded. No more visitors are allowed." The line of guards had blocked off the entire edge of the dock.

"You can't be serious!" Aveline was usually patient and cooperative with her fellow city guards but this ridiculous obstruction crossed the line of even her tolerance. The guard who'd spoken cringed beneath the bark of her demand and Varric was positive the man's face had gone white beneath his mask. All over the docks similar arguments were breaking out as people were forbidden to step into the city.

"Official order of the Empire. No more entrants until the Enthronement of the Divine is complete. There's no space for you." His eyes darted nervously over the disparate band of allies, sensing that the only thing they all had in common was danger.

"Just go back to your ships! You're blocking the rest of us with legitimate business!" a richly dressed merchant on the other side of the guard line was equally frustrated with the situation, blocked from getting to his own vessel. He looked to have a dozen armed mercenaries with him, prepared to fight their way past the problem.

"Ser, please, be patient." The city guard was now caught between two irate, deadly groups. He hadn't signed on for this.

"When did the Maker return and crown you king, anyway?" Elani scowled at the merchant, eying his goons the way one looks at building thunderheads.

"Everyone! Just return to where you came from! The docks are to be vacated immediately!" the spokesman of the guards couldn't quite keep the trill of panic from his voice.

"We have official business with the Divine. We're her guests." Hawke's tone was growing harder, straining to maintain a diplomatic sound when all she wanted was to reach for a weapon. Ever the good leader, she knew that whatever she did the rest of her people would follow. Turning assassins and mages (and Bianca) loose right now would only get innocents hurt. And it would definitely get them in trouble with Leliana.

"Ha! A Fereldan guest of the Divine!" The merchant snorted his laughter, "The only dog-lover welcome here is the Hero and she barely can stop scratching her fleas. You backwater savages got lucky once and now think all Thedas owes you a favor! Who do you think you are?!"

"Ser, I am handling this -!" The guard could feel the first rolls of thunder, just as everyone saw the flash of lightning in Hawke's sky blue eyes.

Varric knew the Champion could brush off thousands of insults with a shrug and a smart repartee. But even with her good humored patience there were three unforgivable sins: touching Isabela (without permission), hurting any of her friends and insulting her family. The poncy bastard had just sealed his own fate. Hawke got as close as she could without actually throwing the Orlesian guardsman out of her way. Her jaw was clenching as tight as her fists, the fight with her own temper always ten times worse than the strongest enemy she'd ever faced.

"I'm the woman who's _not_ going to rip your mask off and shove it up your ass because it would only make this poor kid's life worse," she nodded to the guard trapped between herself and her prey, "But if you care to test me on that feel free to come find me. I'll tell you exactly who I am: I'm the Champion of Kirkwall."

The Fereldan seldom used her full title but when she did there was an inevitable wave of silence followed by a susurrus of panic. Several guards stepped back, realizing she wasn't lying about being a guest of the Divine. Varric was a little disturbed to see the brightening eyes of every mercenary in the company. Those weren't usually the sort of men that were happy to meet Hawke.

"Is that so? Then fortune smiles on me, serra. You are exactly who I was setting sail to see." The merchant's arrogant sound became impossibly delighted with the revelation. There was a chorus of singing metal as a dozen blades were unsheathed.

"Shit, Hawke, is there anyone in Thedas that doesn't want you dead?" Varric shook his head as he grabbed for Bianca, beginning to step back.

"No, but with so many I do lose track." Hawke sighed, daggers appearing like magic in her hands. The charge of magic tickled the hairs on the back of everyone's neck, waiting for command. The line of guards had also drawn their weapons, twisting desperately back and forth, uncertain which side would attack first.

"You owe me a shipment of lyrium, thief." The Orlesian man barely held his army at bay. Varric glanced to Aveline, a silent question receiving the slightest nod of confirmation. Great. Crows, Qunari and now pissed off smugglers. Just need a few darkspawn to burst up from beneath the cobbles to make it a real story.

"Oh, dear, was that yours?" Isabela's melodic voice circled the notes of apology but gave way to a malicious laugh, "To be fair, sweets, we only wanted the horses."

"The cart we dumped in a nearby pond. I'm sure your shipment is creating the world's first generation of magic tadpoles as we speak." Hawke confirmed, her usual lopsided smirk baring more threat and fang.

"A pity. Then you will simply owe me your life for this insult." The merchant gave a single haughty flick of his wrist and his men charged.


	28. Act VII:iii Trouble

_Leliana had spent many nights in camp sitting by the fire, learning its lessons. It was not the flame she watched but the fragile, fluttering wings that danced in the smoke and inevitably drew too close to the lick of heat. Each pale insect was hypnotized by the allure of light, the promise of heat and none could draw back before vanishing in a puff of ash. The bard knew what it was to be pulled by forces too strong to resist, to be mesmerized by flashes that blinded your eyes and warmth that caressed your skin until you forgot entirely the threat that lay beneath. Leliana had been burned once. She wouldn't let it happen again._

_She still loved the pull of danger, though. She could taste it in the air like campfire smoke on a far breeze. She'd simply learned to circle from a wary distance, close enough to be illuminated but never slipping from the security of shadow. The current shadow she had found was below a statue of Our Lady at Valerian Fields. She'd been drawn to the subdued noises of anger and now she tucked herself into the dark corner, watching from a distance._

_"_ _The mages of the Spire are accountable to the Templars." The Grand Cleric of Orlais was trying to walk away from a heavily armed and clearly angry warrior._

_"_ _And the Templars are accountable to the Chantry. In Val Royeaux that means you! Or has rising in ranks made you forgetful?" The foreign accent had a growl of temper barely under control._

_"_ _You forget your place, Seeker." The holy woman put all her haughty authority behind the single rebuke. It would've had most of a congregation cowering in shame._

_"_ _And you forget I knew your predecessor. I saw Callista full of self-importance and foolishness. She let ambition blind her into forsaking her duties. You would not wish to walk that same slippery slope." The Seeker only drew herself taller, eyes a pair of daggers and her jaw set to bite._

_"_ _How dare you! I would never betray the Most Holy!" The Grand Cleric sputtered, utterly aghast at the comparison._

_"_ _That is what we trust. All eyes are on you, Your Grace. The White Spire demands attention, sort your house." The warrior turned away, effectively dismissing herself from the conversation. Leliana could see the cleric's throat bobbing with objections but not a one made it past the chastened woman's lips. She stomped off in the opposite direction, leaving the grand corridor empty save for one bard and an approaching Seeker._

_"_ _You are even more impressive than I thought." Leliana stepped out of the shadows, unperturbed by the warrior reflexively reaching for her sword at the sudden movement._

_"_ _Have we met?" The Seeker's hand stayed on the pommel, blade only partially drawn as she evaluated the potential threat. Sister Nightingale could see the woman's dark eyes scouring her person, surgically taking her apart to decide whether she was worth violence._

_"_ _In views; often. In person? Never," the redhead conceded the rueful truth, "But there comes a time when both hands must grasp the same tool, yes?"_

_"_ _Leliana." The warrior instantly deciphered the subtle clue, her sword sliding back into its sheath._

_"_ _In person, Seeker Pentaghast." The Left Hand executed a graceful curtsy, only rendered a fraction less charming by her heavy leathers and weaponry._

_"_ _You are younger than I imagined." Cassandra, for her part, didn't even bother to bow. Pompous etiquette could only be demanded of her when she was acting officially as Right Hand. She continued her scrutiny of the woman she'd long been in correspondence with. Indeed, before her eyes actually stood the closest ally she had in all Thedas. But it was the first she'd ever seen of her._

_"_ _And you are prettier than I expected." Leliana countered, allowing a smile to play about her lips._

_She'd only ever seen the Seeker from a distance: across a square, far below in a courtyard, at the head of a procession; she'd never had opportunity to study the woman from within scant feet. To say she was striking would be an understatement. The Nevarran warrior radiated power, not just in the intensity of her person but in the iron vise of her control that kept it all contained in one being. The scars, which for most Orlesian and Nevarran noblewomen would be cause for hermitage or suicide, only augmented the casual strength of her expression. This was not a lady, this was a hero. The Right Hand of the Divine had earned her title and paid for it in flesh and blood a thousand times over. No wonder Justinia had wanted her to stay on._

_"_ _Are we to spend the day exchanging pleasantries?" The Seeker's brow twitched impatiently, reminding Leliana she had a task to fulfill._

_"_ _It would not be hard. An hour's worth of compliments occur to me in just these few minutes. You are right, however, there is business at hand." The bard nodded for Cassandra to walk with her, heading for more secluded parts of the cathedral._

_"_ _You mentioned a tool?" Seeker Pentaghast wasn't easily given to trust. She'd spent years rooting corruption and treachery out of the ranks of the Chantry. Templars, mages, sisters, clerics – no one was immune from the harsh questions of her skepticism. But the Left and Right Hands had already accomplished amazing feats with their alliance. They'd managed to quash threats, punish abusers and stay the tide that was inevitably pushing Southern Thedas to war. Unfortunately, it was still a losing battle. Cassandra instinctively knew that if Leliana had sought her out, the situation had grown dire indeed._

_"_ _A weapon, in fact. One that Divine Beatrix entrusted to you. The time to wield it is growing near, if we do not act soon then necessity will take the choice from our hands." Sister Nightingale stopped when they were far from any doors or windows, distant from any possible prying eyes and snooping ears. The Seeker frowned, knowing instantly what her ally meant._

_"_ _The people will not understand." She shook her head. The taste of revolt was heavy in the air of all Thedas, tensions strung tight as bowstrings waiting to let death fly._

_"_ _Then we must make them," Leliana's voice wasn't command but conviction, this was the only path they had left, "Cassandra, we've been racing the storm but now we are nearly caught. We have served as Hands of the Chantry for years. If that means we must now take up its sword, so be it."_

_The Seeker mulled the words. She had been apart from any order for years, answering only to the Divine. It had bred in her an instinct to never just blindly obey and be wary of those who do. She served whole-souled but it was only to those causes she felt sincerely right. She questioned, scrutinized, saw the flaws and cracks in the logic of absolute loyalties and the direction they led. She would not begin a task such as this unless she believed. Leliana didn't hold her breath but she did keep her tongue, waiting for the final verdict._

_"_ _So be it. An Inquisition. We will stop this war before it begins." Cassandra nodded, firmly convinced._

_"_ _Excellent. The first thing we need is a leader, yes?" Sister Nightingale's smile chased all shadow from her eyes. They resumed walking down the corridor, talking in quiet murmurs; Left and Right Hand perfectly aligned._

Leliana could vividly recall the details of her first meeting with Seeker Pentaghast. She remembered Lady Cecilie telling her the story of the Nevarran noble that took holy orders to protect the Chantry, the warrior who proved herself a dragon-slaying hero and saved the Divine when she was little more than a youth. Leliana had not expected to one day be allied with the same woman. After adventuring with the Hero of Ferelden she couldn't be awed, but she was delighted nonetheless.

Six years since they had first been united in common purpose and Sister Nightingale thought no less of Seeker Pentaghast. If anything, the warrior only improved in her estimation. The spymaster had never been one to rely on the opinions of others but when Cassandra chose to speak, Leliana always heard what she had to say. So, when the Seeker told her that she believed Solace, it left the new Divine more to ponder. A message had returned from Montsimmard, Vivienne adamantly certain that no one had ever mishandled the Rite of Tranquility, least of all the former First Enchanter of the Circle. He'd performed the ritual dozens of times in his career at the tower and not a one had anything less than successful (No one would dare use the term 'satisfactory') results. Though Madame de Fer's report on the young mage was fairly sincere and even a tad affectionate, between the lines Leliana could clearly read her assumption: Tranquility does not fail, the girl is lying.

When Leliana confided these details briefly to Cassandra before the opening of the Chant, the Seeker had leveled her with the same cool, scrutinizing gaze she'd used when they first met.

"I do not believe that is so. If she were so accomplished a liar, she would not have fled being discovered. She might even have continued to pretend to be fully Tranquil." The Seeker's simple logic was impeccable and she argued only on the basis of fact, not emotion. But feeling glittered in the flecks of gold in her eyes. It was the spark of indignation, offense on behalf of the wrongly accused. Cassandra had devoted her life to protecting the innocent, the righteous and the helpless on behalf of the Chantry. Something had moved her to believe Solace fell into these categories.

 _Not righteous. Not in general, anyway._ Leliana's spies had been thorough in tracing the mage's history. Montsimmard was a lenient Circle, the girl had obviously enjoyed exploiting her freedoms. Until they were gradually stripped one by one. Innocent would be something of a stretch as well, unless it meant only that she wasn't currently guilty of a specific crime. That they knew of. _Helpless, then._ What other word could there be for a mage without magic?

Vivienne whispering deception on one side, Cassandra demanding justice on the other. Leliana looked down at the blonde in the audience. In a room full of bored politicians, ostentatious royalty and scheming clergy, the mage hadn't paid attention to anything but the Chant for the entire day. She might still be the precise symbol Divine Victoria needed in order to gather mages into the fold. Or she could be a massive lightning rod strapped to the top of the Chantry and begging for trouble.

 _Thinking of trouble,_ Leliana's eyes drifted out the open doors of the balcony, taking in the distant cityscape, _Is that smoke?_

* * *

"Oi, Buckles!" Sera's foot stomped repeatedly over the Inquisitor's head. The angry, rapid noise sounded like she was either putting out a fire or trying a new dance step.

"Yes, Sera?" Trevelyan leaned back to yell up, wondering which bizarre line of conversation they would embark on this time.

In the last two hours Sera had wanted to discuss any number of improbable topics. The questions ranged from wondering who the first person was that decided to eat Drufallo testicles, to demanding to know what purpose pigeons served in the Maker's plan other than shitting on all of Thedas. In between were questions about Qunari horns, ( _'So not having 'em is a rank thing? Like smaller is better? Huh, you lot ARE weird'_ ) the Inquisitor's opinion on silk versus lace versus nothing at all ( _'Like your Seeker's preference, hey?'_ ) and the hour all three of them spent inventing new euphemisms for use in the Grand Cathedral. 'Son of a nug' was the clear winner. After knowing the elf for this long Trevelyan was never surprised by what came out of her mouth, only confused as to how to answer without first whacking her head vigorously into a wall. Conversations with Sera went better with either liquor or brain damage.

"Hawke's back. Thought you'd want to know." The archer reported matter-of-factly, bored with the mundane detail.

"How do you know?" The Inquisitor skeptically rose to her feet.

"'Cause the bloody harbor's on fire. I'd call that a dead giveaway!" Sera's sharp laugh and further comment went completely unheeded as Trevelyan rushed to the far end of the balcony and leaned out, seeing the pillar of black cloud rising inarguably from the docks.

"Looks like they've already started having some fun." Iron Bull joined her, face cracking into a grin as he guessed what she was thinking.

"Let's go enjoy the show, shall we?" The Inquisitor offered the suggestion casually but she felt excitement sharpen her breath, her pulse speeding eagerly ahead even as her feet moved to race off the balcony.

"Wait for me!" Sera clambered down from the roof, flipping to the floor and chasing after the warriors.

One of the perks of having an 8' horned Qunari companion was that getting through crowds was never a problem. People heard the sound of his charge, looked up and saw only a mass of muscle and sharp points bearing down on them and they instantly parted like a quake had split the streets. Trevelyan and Sera simply had to stay close behind, enjoying the ease of running in the wake of his terror. Eve knew they were getting close to the docks when she noticed people on the side no longer standing still but flooding in the opposite direction. Many of them either bleeding or screaming.

They hit the harbor and the Inquisitor was immediately put in mind of the elaborate paintings she'd seen of the Fade. Chaos and activity on all sides; battle, anger, fear and yelling, tortured souls either fleeing for their lives or giving into their own rage and joining the fight. Mercenaries, sailors, civilians, guards, everyone was attacking everyone else and it looked like half the population of the pier had ended up in the water only to climb out and resume fighting. Scattered throughout the mess was a handful of demons reveling in it all.

"Damn it, Hawke! This is five fights in as many days!" Aveline swung hard into a massive attacker, driving him away from innocents trying to escape.

"I know! And I only had to start two of them!" The Champion laughed back, slipping under a swinging axe and rolling away. She and Isabela fought near each other, ascribing a wide circle like the orbit of planets, anyone caught in their pull was swiftly destroyed.

The smoke and ash filling the air rose off a docked ship, the sails and mast completely engulfed in flame. _How in the Maker's-?_ Before the Inquisitor could even finish wondering her instincts drove her to one side, narrowly dodging a ball of fire. It hit the wall behind her and left a scorched bloom.

"Whoop! Sorry!" The accent was all the more familiar with its traces of chagrinned apology.

"Merrill?" Sera started forward, ready to run into the battle to find the elven mage but Trevelyan held her back.

"They can handle themselves." She advised. The last thing this fight needed was one more crazed and deadly participant. Underscoring that fact, all three had to duck when a mercenary was sent flying over their heads by a blast of magic.

"Was that a bad one? I think it was." Merrill's innocent confusion continued to wander to their ears.

The thought of mages dragged Eve's eyes over the pier, finally spotting Morrigan holding her ground against the tide of carnage. She was a pinpoint of controlled calm, barriers forcing the entire war to move around her without encroaching on her space. Three would-be assailants charged the witch; one turned instantly to ice, a second was blasted off the pier and the third suddenly collapsed. Eve hadn't even noticed the well-dressed noblewoman until she flashed out of the chaos long enough to retrieve her dagger from the back of his neck. Morrigan returned the favor, the sharp end of her staff slicing through the armor of a fourth attacker they hadn't seen.

A loud explosion thundered across the harbor, a knot of fighters blown off the dock by the force and others jumping into water to put out their flames. Magic and explosives were swiftly thinning the numbers, dimming the enthusiasm of all the civilians and sailors who'd only thought this a chance to take a few licks at each other and gang up on guards.

"Elani, put your shit away! There're innocents out here!" Varric's order shouted from the far end of the pier, he and Bianca picking off targets with pinpoint precision.

"Sodding dwarf." The grumbled reply came from nearly overhead, twisting the Inquisitor's eyes upward.

An elf had found purchase on a narrow window ledge, a perfect vantage for firing into the crowds. She grimaced and swung her crossbow back into its holster before taking a flying leap off her purchase. The blonde caught the arm of a lamppost, feet kicking a mercenary into the ocean before she flipped over and landed on the back of a second. Trevelayn watched as her arms caught him tight around the neck, legs interlocking over his chest. The man struggled, gasping as the air was choked from his lungs and throat simultaneously. It looked - for all the world - like he was giving the elf a piggy-back ride. Except he was turning purple. He collapsed to the dock and the woman identified as Elani disentangled herself, finishing with a heavy boot to his gut for good measure before she vanished into the fray.

The Inquisitor couldn't see Zevran but she could track him through the battle by the sudden shouts and bursts of accented laughter that danced airily around the pier. The nine allies were pockets of destruction scattered across the pier.

"Sorry! I thought you – oh, you are! Not sorry!" Merrill delighted to find she was attacking the right people.

"All yours, Big Girl!" Isabela kicked a mercenary straight into Aveline's arcing blow.

"Dragon lady gonna put on a show again?" Elani dove under a man's legs, twisting and kicking up at the crucial moment to drop him to his knees in tears.

"You want the whole city going up in flame?" Varric shouted back, Bianca's heavy arrow firing through three men, pinning the last two against each other on a wall.

"'Twould improve the odor." Morrigan was moving now, striding purposefully across the dock. Her arms might have been spread wide in an open embrace except a wall of force was moving ahead of her, plowing everyone out of her path.

They were down to the dregs of the fight now, stragglers and stubborn fools that didn't know when to quit. A mercenary dragged himself back up onto the pier behind the witch, racing after her. There was a blur of grey and he was back in the water, this time sinking down beneath a bloom of crimson.

"Terribly sorry, I think that one was yours." The noblewoman caught up to Morrigan, smile ever so smug. The witch didn't reply, save for a haughty tilt of chin that couldn't quite hide her smirk.

"Shame, was that all of them?" Isabela pulled her dagger back out of the last mercenary, looking over the collapsed mass of humanity that littered the docks. No answer met her beyond the suffering groans of the living that wished they weren't so lucky.

"Sorry, 'Bela. Want me to shake one of them and pretend it's alive like I do with my hound?" Hawke offered, laughing at the pirate's pout.

"Would that be with a toy or an actual corpse?" The Inquisitor stepped over various bodies as she approached the blood spattered friends. The Champion's smile spread wider when she turned and spotted Trevelyan.

"What can I say? I spoil him." Hawke playfully dodged the question with a helpless shrug.

Before Eve could say more a blur of blonde shot past at eye level. Sera darted across the pier and swung Merrill off her feet. She spun the mage around, forgetting how slippery the docks were. The archer lost her balance and they both tumbled over in a tangle, laughing without trying to get up.

"You come all this way to just to see me, then?" Sera got the upper hand, delighting in her triumph.

"No. I came to see the Inquisition. I thought they might give me a lift to Skyhold so that- Oh," Merrill's stream of consciousness finally caught up to the actual answer, "Yes, I did actually."

"'S what I thought." The blonde grinned before using her lips to express herself less verbally. Sera never did anything halfway so when she kissed Merrill she poured herself into it, wordlessly conveying all her pleasure at the reunion. The brunette's trapped moan promised that she abandoned herself just as easily.

"They do know what they're lying in, don't they?" Hawke's brow twisted, amused but revolted all at once.

"She's a blood mage, sweets. It probably adds an extra layer of kink." Isabela wrapped an arm around the Champion's shoulders to draw her attention away.

"Worried about us, Your Inquisitorship?" Varric grinned, hoisting his crossbow onto his shoulder like a primitive man carrying a conquered bride. It was an oddly ironic gesture, seeing as everyone knew all the power in the relationship belonged to Bianca. She was inanimate yet she literally called the shots.

"I couldn't pass up a chance to watch all of you in action," Eve gestured to the widespread destruction and smoldering ruins, "Though I think this might have been a rather tame exhibition."

"Not really. We only do worse when there's a nutter mage bent on revolt hanging about." Isabela was carefully inspecting each of her blades, polishing away blood and checking for nicks.

"I suppose Val Royeaux should be grateful that the two mages with you today are more stable." Trevelyan would never dare apply the word 'sane' to either woman. A light yelp and interrupted giggle announced that Merrill had reversed positions with Sera.

"Relatively, anyway," Hawke turned to check on Morrigan and suddenly her eyes were bright as cut diamond, "Isabela, I won!"

"Bollocks! You sure?" the pirate appeared at Hawke's side. The Champion pointed to Morrigan, who happened to be standing next to Lady de Vici and inspecting two thin slices on her cheek. A panicked civilian got lucky twice – first when the edge of his daggers accidentally caught the assassin's face and then for a second time when she didn't slit his throat on the spot.

"Scratched, just like I said. That'll be four sovereigns. We'll worry about the rest tonight." Hawke smugly held out one hand for payment.

"No. No bloody way. Those are blade marks, not nail cuts." Isabela folded her arms and set her jaw with an iron will that promised they'd be fighting this until the Maker returned to Black City.

"I never said the scratches had to be from Morrigan. I only said they'd be there." The Champion gloated in her victory. Winning by a technicality was still winning, after all.

"Not a chance, sweets. The bet was that the ice bitch would be a rough lover. No proof, no win." The Captain was pointedly ignoring the indignant glowering of both apostate and assassin, each promising death in its own unique way.

"Maker's breath! Don't you two have enough going on in your own private life?" Aveline was sick of this conversation and the mental images it involved "Why must you insist on involving others?"

"Cause there's always room for more, Big Girl," Isabela winked to the guardswoman before turning back to Hawke, "There's no way I admit you've won. Not unless the Crow strips down and her back looks like she went three rounds with a wyvern."

"Unholy mother of demons!" Lady de Vici's patience finally broke.

The Crow strode over to the arguing group and yanked up her sleeve. For a split second everyone thought she might reveal marks, livid red confessions of intimacy that would settle any dispute. But the tan skin was smooth and unmarred. The audience barely had time to absorb that revelation before Ravenel grabbed the witch's hand. The apostate reflexively tried to pull away but it was no use, in less than a second the assassin had dragged Morrigan's nails up the vulnerable flesh of her wrist, four angry welts rising and then trickling blood.

"There, the bet is settled!" Ravenel commanded, firm glare darting between the two rogues, "Now, if you're quite done being utterly juvenile?"

The assassin spun on her heel and strode away on the docks, leaving her shell-shocked audience in silence. _There's a story there._ The Inquisitor would never dare to put a word to Morrigan's thoughts or feelings; she was far too private and confusing a woman for simple explanations. Still, there was something undeniably curious about the way the apostate levelled a final biting glare at the two betting rogues before turning to wordlessly follow de Vici. Watching them walk away - rigidly maintaining personal space but only its very edge – Trevelyan felt an inkling of recognition. It was the same way she and Cassandra walked together in public. Perhaps the famed Witch of the Wilds was even more complicated than she'd thought?

The contemplative stillness was broken by two sudden shrieks and a loud splash. Sera and Merrill had just rolled off the dock.


	29. Act VII: iv Andraste's Blood

An audience with the Divine was a rare privilege. Faithful worshipers of high rank could go their entire lives without a personal introduction, let alone a private conversation. Yet as Cassandra walked into the well-appointed chamber that she'd been in not a week before, she realized that not a soul present felt they were doing anything other than meeting with an old friend. The jovial air had not a trace of solemnity or devotion. Or silence.

"I have always admired the stamina of the Wardens, their endurance is legendary," Zevran was trying his luck once more with Bethany, "Coupled with the powers of a mage means that you, lithe and lovely as a flower though you are, must be truly tireless."

"And yet, I find I'm getting tired of you." Bethany's smile was sweet as roses and twice as prickly. Her smart retort brought applauding laughter from Isabela and Hawke. The Champion wasn't hovering protectively as she had a week before. It was possible that she was learning her little sister could take care of herself. More likely, however, it was simply because she and the pirate had found a bottle of brandy to share.

"Give it up, Zev. She likes rippling armor and shining muscles," Hawke paused with the drink raised halfway to her mouth, "Or was it the other way around?"

"That, sweet thing, depends entirely on what's making the muscles glisten. Firelight? Fragranced oil skillfully applied? The sweat of a long night's exertions and other delicious moistures exchanged against skin?" Isabela took the bottle from Hawke, pulling a long swig before her tongue darted across the feral shape of her lips, pleased with her own imaginings. She handed the brandy off to a third drinking partner.

"Can it only be one?" The elf grinned, dropping into an armchair as if she were subduing an enemy. Her face was pink from recently being scrubbed clean but there were remnants of smoke and blood near her hair. They'd all come from battle, Cassandra could smell it.

"Sweet cheeks, in my experience nothing good stops at one." Isabela grinned, a bronzed hand snaking expertly over the chain of Hawke's armor, poking into a familiar gap in the mail and making the Champion jump. When the Fereldan rogue caught the offending digits, she used her grip to pull the pirate closer, forcing Isabela to spill halfway across her lap before she could right herself.

"If you want that kind of attention you just have to ask." The pirate purred, pushing herself off Hawke with a grip on her thigh that didn't release.

The teasing offer was typical of their blasé flirtation, a seductive dance that usually culminated in both women forgetting anyone else was present. Cassandra was embarrassed and irritated at the display, but somewhere beneath the surface she applauded their open ease. She could not – would not – ever wish for such blatant exposure in her own romance; she did not need the world to know who she loved, or when or how. But she was gradually beginning to understand that the two rogues weren't simply trying to make people uncomfortable, they weren't being confrontational or deliberately offensive (most of the time). They were merely expressing their affection for one another in the way that was most natural for them; ie, by being wanton, blasphemous and constantly inappropriate. Cassandra might delight in hurling rebuke and insults at the slattern and all her carnal narcissism but that only hid the warrior's recognition of the glow in Isabela's eyes. Real love was always pure, no matter how filthy and corrupt its source. It was the last touch of the Maker's own blessing in their world and the Seeker would always wonder at the power of its reach.

The thought of divine touches and romance moved Cassandra's eyes away from the trio of profanities and their indulgence. She found her own piece of the Maker's will standing near the open windows, wreathed in late afternoon sun that turned metal to skin and skin to gold.

"So then Morrigan gets annoyed and decides to take matters into her own claws," Varric was busy debriefing the Inquisitor in his own imitable, inaccurate way, "Before the ox-men know what's happening a dragon is bearing down on them and setting fire to everything on deck. Black powder kegs were exploding on all sides and there were horns flying in every direction – one of the sailors took one right between the eyes! Rivaini is cussing so hard you'd think she's creating the storm that's bucking the ship. Then the other two dreadnoughts start loading canons -,"

Aveline was standing right beside the dwarf and finally lost her patience. She sighed and clamped an arm on his shoulder, effectively interrupting the exaggerated narrative.

"One dreadnought under clear blue skies. Everyone fought. Morrigan did turn into a dragon to save us and there were no casualties, just a few close calls." The Guard Captain corrected every false fact, casting the writer a tired rebuke with her eyes.

"Stick to your crime reports, critic." Varric frowned, eternally disappointed by his friend's lack of imagination.

Cassandra caught the Inquisitor's eye, a private exchange of amusement passing between them along with promises of more stories once they were alone. Trevelyan's glance slid past the Seeker long enough to spot Solace in her shadow, a subtle lift to her brow asking the obvious. Cassandra gave an answer with an almost imperceptible tilt of her head; she would explain later. The mage couldn't be left to her own devices. When the Chant was done for the day there had been a glimpse of hollow sadness in the blonde's eyes. For the space of a breath the Seeker had seen darkness sucking the color out of her gaze, the silence echoing a louder emptiness within. Then the spark of mischief reignited; a stubborn, willful fire that filled up all the spaces and wrapped around her thoughts like armor.

Cassandra had grabbed Solace's arm before she could do anything stupid, blasphemous or licentious. The mage had tensed at first to flee, then she saw who caught hold of her and the fire dimmed, revealing once more the hints of fear and worry that lay beneath. Where the mage got feistier with Trevelyan, she grew calmer with just the Nevarran noble, drawing strength from the warrior's stillness. Whether it was the trust they'd formed in the Arbor Wilds or simply the common ground of devoted faith, Solace seemed comfortable and controlled only so long as the Seeker was near. Yet another mystery for future unraveling.

The only member of Hawke's company that Cassandra hadn't yet seen was Morrigan. Ordinarily the witch had a presence like a dagger of ice scraping over the back of your neck, impossible to miss and preferable to avoid. Right now, however, she was having trouble finding the apostate. Not until she noticed an empty corner of the room that was strangely less empty than it appeared. Squinting her eyes and concentrating allowed the Seeker to penetrate the cloaked effect secreting Morrigan. The deliberate aura of elusive presence radiated off the witch's companion, enfolding them both with a skill known only to assassins. Was the privacy intentional or a side effect of the stranger's agitated state?

"'Twas foolishly impulsive." Morrigan chided as she examined a row of cuts on the other woman's arm, healing charged in her fingers.

"Then you're the only one permitted to have a temper?" the Antivan retorted, more tease than argument in her tone. Her eyes followed the witch's touch hovering over her skin, fingers twitching against the impulse to grasp the hand holding her own.

"I do not waste my ire on worthless whores. I should leave these marks to fester and scar so that you might learn the same lesson." The apostate had yet to begin healing the wounds, the arch of her brow making the threat real. _What did Isabela do this time?_ Cassandra's glance darted toward the sailor who was completely oblivious to being a subject of conversation.

"Are you certain? Because if you leave me scars from your touch it won't be the pirate I think of each time I see them." The assassin met the threat with a sultry smile, the taunt of her words curling into flirtation with a turn of her lips.

Cassandra watched, stunned to see the famed Witch of the Wilds pause at the thought, the gold of her eyes flamed with inner wars. The battle passed as swiftly as a breeze, any hints in her expression vanishing like the marks on the Antivan's wrist as the healing spell glowed along her skin. The assassin didn't hide her disappointment, her frown nearly crossing into the territory of Isabela's own famous pout.

Then Morrigan raised her fingers to the other woman's face, brushing the spell against a cut that was still livid red. What should have been a routine healing was suddenly warmed by the tilt of a tanned cheek pressing instinctively closer, turning the clinical touch into a caress. The gesture would have seemed boldly intimate if not for a line marring the Antivan's brow; that single wrinkle confessed she'd fought temptation and lost horrifically. Telling lines appeared on the witch's face too, on either side of her mouth as she refused to yield to a smile. _What in the Maker's holy name is going on?_

"Damnit, woman, am I telling the story or not?" Varric's outburst dragged Cassandra back to the rest of the inhabitants of the room.

"Apparently not since I have no idea what tale you're spinning. There were no demons on the docks today and the only blood mage was on our side." Aveline refused to be intimidated by the dwarf's irritation.

"And she's off with her own personal demon right now." Isabela's throaty chuckle earned a mildly nauseated look from Hawke. The Fereldan still didn't deal well with the shattering innocence of her younger friend. It wasn't hypocrisy precisely; but when the Champion's pirate lover decided to wipe the frown off her face by kissing her with a mouthful of brandy that dribbled slightly from their joined lips, it was hard to think of any other word for the gross double standard.

"Can we at least agree that Hawke dangled the smugglers' ringleader off the edge of the dock by his ankles and let me take shots at him until he wet himself?" Varric refused to sacrifice even one more narrative detail. Particularly not one that sounded like it was most probably true.

"You grazed him twice before she dropped him into the water." Aveline surrendered the fact, a hard set to her jaw suggesting that she might store it for future prosecution. The dwarf accepted this compromise with a rumble of laughter as rough as the stubble on his face.

Cassandra had been forced to attend family gatherings for Satinalia precisely three times in her life – all when she had no immediate excuses. It was a torture that she dreaded would become more frequent if the Ostwick Trevelyans had their way with the youngest of the clan. There wasn't a snowball's chance in a dragon den that the Inquisitor would be guilt-ridden into going home for the holidays without dragging the Seeker along for protection. Yet the Nevarran's limited experience now made the air of this current room familiar. Flirtations in the corner, drinking in the open, lies and laughter echoing off the walls; all that was missing was for someone to burst into a song or bitter argument to complete the scene.

Divine Victoria herself did little to alter the mood when she arrived, slipping out of the persona of Most Holy as soon as she crossed the threshold. All the otherworldliness and sanctity was set aside, shed like a skin, and she was Leliana once more. Bard, spymaster, connoisseur of Orlesian fashion and mistress of the Game; as comfortable in the company of heroes and thieves as she was amongst kings and priests. No rogue or royal ever had the upper hand over Sister Nightingale.

The Hero was at her side – or was for the first three steps into the room before she was accosted by both Bethany and Morrigan. The two mages dragged the Warden to the far side of the chamber, losing themselves in detailed interrogations and suspicious examinations; most of which involved Solona not being able to get a word in edgewise. The Seeker didn't know precisely what might be involved in curing the Calling but the process must have been weighing heavily on Morrigan's mind, very little was important enough to delay her seeing Kieran. The younger Hawke's face was lined with worries that slowly alleviated, suddenly bursting apart like sun rays breaking through clouds; Morrigan had complimented her work.

"You have all been quite busy, yes?" Leliana's eyes turned away from the Hero's checkup, fondness warming her gaze even as she cast a smirk at her bizarre company of allies. The amused sparkle that danced behind cerulean blue promised she already knew everything that had happened with all of them in the last week. Her body might be trapped in the Grand Cathedral but her eyes roamed all Thedas.

"The harbor wasn't actually damaged; no matter what all the guards keep whining. The only loss was a recently arrived clipper ship," Varric offered an unembellished version of recent events, the broad crack of his smile hinting at larger stories, "And I have it on good authority that the captain hadn't been planning to return to sea anytime soon. There'd been mention of an early retirement, I think."

"How comforting to know your victorious return wasn't overly dramatic." Wry humor tugged at the Divine's lips. There was a way she had of curling her accent a little more elegantly around particular words, hitting unconscious strings of melody and danger in every ear. In this case it was the word 'victorious' that made every person's spine pull straighter, the question implicit in her subtle cue.

Hawke recognized the unspoken command and got to her feet; ignoring protests from the pirate who'd been comfortably resting half her body across the Fereldan. Cassandra was pleased to note that the Champion had enough respect to bow slightly in greeting to the Divine. Even those without a shred of faith felt the need to pay homage to Leliana's subdued dignity.

"As per the request of Andraste's Own: one decipherer, quite deadly," Hawke gestured to the assassin in the corner, "One thief, possibly rabid," another wave of her hand encompassed the elf that stuck out her tongue, "And one record book, fully intact. Except for the pages said thief tore out yesterday so that she and Isabela could draw a couple Qunari taking horns up the ass."

So much for homage and dignity.

"They were blank." The blonde elf protested petulantly as she pulled a massive, leather-bound folio from her oversized satchel. She held it out to Divine Victoria and the woman took it with barely a glance, eyes riveted instead on the carrier.

"So you are the thief of Par Vollen? Interesting." Leliana took in the elf. Blood stained clothing, deceptively small size, crazed hair and – under the Divine's intense scrutiny – cocky smile beginning to waver.

"Elani's fine, thank you, Holiest." The thief mumbled as she rubbed one hand over the back of her neck, leaving sooty finger marks. Cassandra could feel the woman's growing discomfort. The only person she'd ever seen completely immune to Sister Nightingale's soul-stripping eyes was Isabela; the whore had sold her soul years before for a ship full of half-naked men and rum with never a twitch of regret. No one else withstood that penetrating gaze. Not the Inquisitor, not Empress Celene, not even Varric.

"Very well. After so much effort I imagine everyone is eager to hear the secrets they have captured. Lady de Vici, if you please?" The Divine handed off the volume to the assassin before settling into a grand armchair. She pulled off her headdress, unburdening herself of the weight of office.

"You wish me to decipher right now?" de Vici stared at the record in her hands, eyes alive with delight at the possession but terrified of the sudden task, "I had expected a day or more to do my work. At least a few hours to form a rudimentary summary -,"

"The contract was commissioned by the Chantry, therefore I already know its gist," Leliana brushed away the Antivan's concerns with a simple wave, "Of greatest import would be the most recent records. Research into the last of Andraste's descendants. It would be in your mother's own hand, would it not?"

Sister Nightingale, flashing all her store of secrets once again. The assassin set her mouth in a thin line, resisting the temptation to reply with any emotion to the intimate insight. Instead she busied herself in the book, thumbing to the final pages and scanning the text. In the ensuing silence Cassandra was pleased to find the Inquisitor stepping casually into her space.

"There is more going on here than meets the eye, Seeker." Trevelyan murmured quietly near her ear. The observation would have seemed innocent to anyone overhearing, but Cassandra heard the whispering tone that deliberately hinted at a hundred other words spoken in the same notes over countless private nights. Decades of life in the Order came to the Nevarran's aid, keeping her face still as a statue.

"The Divine is smirking." Cassandra agreed, equally quiet as she scrutinized Leliana's enigmatic expression. Her own hoarse whisper had the added benefit of retaliating against the teasing intimacy of Eve's voice. The Inquisitor loved playing this game, maintaining the pretense of their professional façade around friends while teasing the edge of its limits. Their own version of Hawke and Isabela's dance.

"I fear we are in for an upset." Treveylan's soft groan of complaint was tinged with the breathy stutter of a chuckle. The Seeker found a smile answering the sound, immediately forcing her lips back to their neutral line. There was some sort of magic in the Inquisitor's indomitable humor, the charm of her casual wit ever determined to make Cassandra forget herself.

"As usual." The brunette warrior replied in perfect deadpan, relishing the pleased turn of smile that graced her lover's mouth. Seeker Pentaghast was not humorous; not silly, nor ridiculous, nor witty. But sarcasm slid across her tongue as easily as a blade into her hand. The first time she saw the Inquisitor laughing at her barbed words she had felt warm pleasure suffusing her cheeks. Yet it would still be a year more before she understood that she loved being able to make the woman smile.

"The former Lady de Vici's research traces Andraste's blood line through the last four known generations," the Antivan woman's throat tightened on her mother's name, choking any personal thought out of her voice as her fingers traced the last page of writing, "She identifies descendants reaching all the way into the Dragon Age."

"So recent?" The Inquisitor's surprised question echoed Cassandra's own disbelief. The assumption - even among Chantry priests and rebel scholars – was that IF Andraste had children (if, if, if; they couldn't repeat it often enough) they would surely have died out centuries before. Leliana's smirk was beginning to take on a worrisome shade of smugness, a victory hiding behind the placid pleasure.

"Beginning with Mabrila of House Gaviot, the lineage continues to Hesine in House Fachere." The assassin began translating the genealogy, concentrating on her work and only a twitch at the corner of her eye betraying her annoyance at the voices trying to distract her.

"You reading that right, Killer? Gaviot is a dead house." Elani the thief suddenly spoke up, already too pleasantly warmed by brandy to notice the deadly glare that shot across the room. If nightshade poison could seep through the color of de Vici's eyes the elf would already be foaming at the mouth.

"Sure about that, Cuddles?" Hawke _had_ noticed the twin purple daggers in the noblewoman's stare and leaned forward, positioning herself between the two.

"Course I am," the elf snorted, fingers clutching at the air in the universal 'gimme' gesture, delighting when Isabela surrendered the brandy once more, "'S an Imperium house. Died out before this age because they didn't have heirs. Estate in Minrathous has been empty for decades. Me and some other rabbit kids used to go nick berries from the garden."

"I imagine more names might provide an enlightening answer." Leliana was unperturbed. Eerily so. She was not bothered that the names tracked to families in the Tevinter Imperium. She wasn't astonished to find that Andraste's blood had touched their own lifetime. She was an enigma of confidence and that, more than anything, betrayed the truth to Cassandra.

"She already knows what the book says." The Seeker exhaled the sudden realization. That was the only reason the famed keeper of secrets feigned such disinterest in the record. This decoding wasn't for her benefit. She'd assembled an unimpeachable audience of witnesses: The Inquisitor, the Champion of Kirkwall, Hero of Ferelden, a famed writer, a respected guard captain, a Seeker of Truth, the Empress' own advisor. Thedas might ignore the testimony of any single one of this modern pantheon but couldn't deny them all. Leliana wanted _them_ to hear the truth. She wanted them to end the secrets.

"From Hesine of House Fachere," Lady de Vici pointedly ignored Elani's contradiction and continued her task, "The next in line was Wylone of House Janvies."

"This isn't about the contract. It never was." The Inquisitor leapt past Cassandra's own insight to an even greater revelation. The way Leliana's eyes tracked her audience, completely disinterested in the decoding of the record, watching for reactions; the book didn't matter. Something else was more important. The de Vici record was a means to an end and Divine Victoria – ever Sister Nightingale at heart – had used it to get what she really wanted. The surging sparks of delight flashing like lightning in her gaze guaranteed that what she wanted was right before her eyes.

"Wait – Killer, say again?" Elani managed to pause her drinking long enough to recognize another name.

"After Wylone is Kalia, also of House Janvies." De Vici completely disregarded the question but none of them could ignore the abrupt explosion of glass when a brandy bottle hit the floor, shards and droplets of liquor flying in every direction like the blast of a broken spell.

"Right, what bollocks kind of game are you playing?" Elani was on her feet with reflexes far too fast for the inebriated stupor of seconds before.

"You are familiar with these names, yes?" Leliana's expression was too guileless to be real, faking surprise at the outburst but with amused triumph bleeding across her face.

"I don't know what shit you lot are playing at but it's not funny. What does this say? For real this time, what does it actually say? You must've deciphered it wrong." Elani tried to grab the record book from de Vici but the assassin had a grip like iron. For a brief moment both women clung to the edges of the book, a battle of histories and wills taking place as nightshade met cold steel and charged the air of the room.

"It says that Andraste's last known descendant was Kalia of House Janvies. Ciphers are meant to confuse but they cannot lie." Lady de Vici refused to surrender either the records or her decoded translation. If anything, the elf's reaction merely verified that the name had import.

"What is it that so disturbs you?" Leliana rose from her chair now, artfully pushing both women away from each other with little more than a brush of her fingers. Elani continued to glare at the leather volume as though it had tried to steal all her worldly possessions (which she had rightfully stolen first).

"I came from House Janvies. They owned my parents and grandparents." The elf was fitfully pacing now: two steps to the left, three steps back; an agitated rhythm that exposed the confusion of her mind.

 _But you knew that already._ The Seeker bit the inside of her cheek until she could taste blood, adamantly holding her tongue. A similar coiled tension radiated off Trevelyan beside her, equally agonized in the discipline of silent patience. If this were the war room, a table of operations spread before them and advisors arguing on all sides, then the Inquisitor would take control. She would seize facts, force decisions, laughing and commanding until every objection disappeared. But this wasn't the Inquisition; it wasn't her turn to hold all the power in the room.

"I suppose then that these names must mean something to you, no?" The Divine had the coy, lazy manner of a deadly jungle cat watching trapped prey. She was savoring the revelation as it gradually unwound into everyone's mind, most importantly the elf she was watching pace.

"Kalia -," The thief was clawing at walls closing in on her own thoughts, trying to escape the redhead's inevitable final blow, "Kalia and Wylone . . ."

"Your mother," Leliana took pity at last, lowering this last devastating fact with a tone like fingers brushing thin ice: gentle but precisely shattering, "And your grandmother. If you could read that record book you would find the names of every woman in your family line."

"Ok, Nightingale, you've got our attention," Varric rose and put a hand on the stunned elf, pushing her into a chair, "Now you feel like explaining?"

"Tevinter slavers keep the most accurate records in Thedas. Blood lines are traced and documented for features, parentage and defects. Important, I suppose, if all you care about is breeding a stronger slave or prettier eyes," the Divine's smile vanished in a fleeting scowl of distaste, "Thus it was not difficult to identify a lineage of daughters, born only of daughters for nearly a thousand years."

 _Daughters only._ Cassandra recollected the letter that they had once found from Sister Galenna, outlining the research and suspicions of the Augustan Order. Had that tiny clue really been all Leliana needed to piece together the Chantry's greatest enduring mystery? There had to have been more.

"You cannot be serious." Aveline was having just as much trouble accepting the overly simplified facts. She voiced the same doubt that created lines around every eye in the room – all except the serene, sparkling sapphires that stayed fixed on Elani. The thief was motionless now, all the activity taking place behind the numbed confusion on her face. Shock and panic were vying for control of her reaction but chased each other so mercilessly that her thoughts couldn't actually capture either.

"I am. As was the Chantry long before me and our friends in Antiva who were so determined to do their job." A nod here; a tilt of acknowledgment toward Lady de Vici that expressed the Divine's gratitude to her family's generations of dogged obsession.

"You're fingering the wrong hole, Songbird," a rich voice chuckled in the throaty notes of Rivain and rum, "This one's nuttier than an all-male special and nearly as naughty. If she's Andraste's blood then Her flaming sword's been between my legs."

"Eloquent as ever, Isabela." Leliana's smile was patient, amused by the pirate. The redhead even looked pleased. Someone had to bring Andraste's name into the conversation; how atrociously ironic that it came from the tongue of the most blasphemous person in the room. Yet there it was, the words hanging over them all as a reality they had to either accept or reject. Andraste's blood.

"I'm an elf." Elani protested. She reminded Cassandra of the soldiers who continuously tossed a coin in hopes of forcing it to land on the answer they wanted, growing desperate as control drifted further away with each flip.

"Yes. It is interesting, no? Shartan was as well." The Divine turned the argument on its ear. Or ears, as it were.

There it was. The Seeker saw the same gleam of success in Leliana's eye that usually accompanied a thrust of a dagger, an exchange of sealed papers, a final word - her last card was being played and (naturally) she was about to win. Shartan. The elf that joined his followers to fight alongside Andraste in battle, dying in his failure to save her from Tevinter's flames; erased after the passage of time and politics made the Chantry ungrateful and made history disappear. Apocryphal though he was, Shartan refused to vanish. He remained a source of debate, of irritation, shame and – above all – scandal. Rumors grew louder when whispered in a hush. Titillated lay-sisters pretended to be horrified as they fed on the romantic ideas that bloomed so dramatically between the lines of their scriptures. He was Andraste's ally, her champion and – as the gossip salaciously insisted – her lover.

"That is hardly evidence, dearest," Zevran spoke up, drawn into the conversation by the inevitable ropes of race rather than religion, "In that era of history every elf woman claimed a child by Shartan. It is used even today among city elves when a mother has no husband."

"Very true, and the Tevinter Imperium – in their traumatized and paranoid wisdom – kept track of each one. The children of Shartan were captives and slaves; criminals easy to execute the instant they showed sign of any truth in the claims of their blood. Then an Exalted March on the Dales made all elves enemies. A schism in the Chantry robbed Andraste of her divinity in Tevinter. The name Shartan lost its meaning to anyone without the ear for it and the children vanished. Until the day the Chantry decided to contract assassins." Leliana managed to summarize a millennium of history into a few pertinent sentences, the only facts that mattered in the discussion at hand. The ones that could be digested by everyone present.

"Then there are dozens of Shartan's kids. Maybe hundreds. Nothing you said ties me to red hair or a weird habit of talking to the Maker." Elani got to her feet, grasping at the information that had brushed past her mind like a lifeline on stormy seas.

"Nothing," the Divine agreed with a shrug, the sort that always offered graceful surrender right before a lilt of absolute triumph filled her voice, "Except Tevinter records dating as far back as the beginning of the Imperium and including every detail of the year 1025. Records identifying each child with Shartan's name and only one without a mother. Only one line that would go on to create a genealogy of daughters born to daughters traceable to you. You are not redheaded, Elani. You are not human and you are not touched by the Maker. But you _are_ the blood of Andraste."

"Shit." The elf sank into a crouch, the way an overwhelmed drunk braces against the upheaval of nausea.

"Just remember," Leliana knelt now as well, a delicate, porcelain hand reaching out to draw the thief out of her sickened shock. The tender touch was diametrically opposed to the sharp edge of her gaze, "A name is more than a life. I _will_ use the records and identify you as Andraste's last descendant. Whether you are alive or not at the time? That is up to you."

Cassandra knew it wasn't a toothless warning. Sister Nightingale had shaped a suspected murderess into the Herald of Andraste. She could work miracles with an elf of Andraste's blood. Particularly if said elf wasn't around to contradict, defame or profane the holy lineage. Leliana had a vision of the Chantry's future; it did not demand willing cooperation. There was a reason religions loved stone icons – symbols were easier to work with when they weren't breathing.

"You aren't killing me, Mother," Elani answered the threat with a newfound spark of will, determination pushing her to her feet, "You still haven't _paid_ me. Fuck if this isn't going to cost extra."


	30. Act VII:v Epiphanies

" _O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights." – Transfigurations 12:1a_

The Grand Cathedral was a place of repose and holy reflection. A center of pilgrimage meant to offer sanctuary and peace to the weary of soul, destroyed in spirit and scarred in flesh. At night, when the pulsing beat of life slowed to languid rhythms of sleep, the great structure settled into solitude like a planet turning away to darkness, the specter of its presence ever comforting to the city embraced in its shadow. Noises quieted, steps slowed, voices whispered, ever aware to not disturb the sleeping grace of the holy walls. Solace liked the silence, much as she'd liked the sacred tranquility of the Chantry in the Circle Tower. She just hated when it was full of people. People ruined everything. Bastards.

She leaned against a balcony railing overlooking the grand courtyard. It was mostly empty, the faithful and penitent having retreated from cold air and pickpockets. A few candles remained stubbornly lit, clenched in the fists of pilgrims too poor to rob and women too old to care. Solace felt her throat tightening, a swell of pity from above meeting the burn of anger from below and tying itself into a knot. _Selfish prayers and hollow hopes on every tongue._ Every one of them down there was faithful, devoted, maybe even righteous; and what were their prayers likely to be? Deliver us from magic. Destroy the mages. Rain judgment upon all those who consort with demons and protect us from the consequences of every one of our own damn ideas.

Solace had loved the Chant since she was young, carried on the cadences of sung scripture the way other children were hushed with lullabyes. But that was not the same as loving the Chantry itself or the people that dictated she be locked in a Circle, policed by Templars and punished with near-magical disciplines each time her powers and wit wished to be more than a slave. _Love the song, hate the singers._ She recalled the advice of a fellow mage, similarly torn by holy affection and personal resentment. The blonde pushed herself off the balcony railing and stalked away, refusing to let her irritation get the better of her. She'd never in her life thought she might set foot in the Grand Cathedral. This was her one and only chance to enjoy the ultimate silence that was meant for people to commune with everything greater than themselves.

"Shit, shit, shit!" In the reverent stillness, one blasphemous trail of words tumbled like an avalanche along the echoing corridor.

Servants and sisters cringed in the wake of the words but when they hit Solace's ears she felt the tug of humor pulling her lips upward. If she couldn't have silence, profanity was almost as good. The mage followed the litany of curses like an ocean tide, swelling and falling, rising to break ships apart and then gentling to murmuring unease. The voice was building steam just as Solace drew close.

"Maker's bloody boner! Suck a whore and spank Andr-," a sudden syllable unwillingly choked and swallowed like a child suffering broccoli, "Can't fucking say that, anymore can I? Flaming tits. 'Spose this means you're listening, does it?"

Solace found Elani stomping furiously back and forth along an empty gallery not much farther down the balconies from where the mage herself had been lost in contemplation. Moonlight is a magic of its own; it inspires poets, cultivates thinkers and fuels romantics. It also – as children know – feeds worries and nurses fear in every shadow. The elf strode angrily along the railing, pausing every now and then to look up at the bejeweled necklace sky sparkling down at her, then resuming her incensed, impious rumination.

"You gonna start answering me now? Shit, never prayed in my life. Sodding balls. Is the whole universe taking the piss? Didn't ask for this. You know that, don't you? Or you would, if you were real! Stupid bit -," once more the elf showed an unusual restraint, curbing her curse at the last moment. She dropped to a bench, burying her face in both hands as she struggled to find words that weren't learned amongst soldiers or criminals.

"She doesn't respond much to that one. I've tried." Solace came out of the shadowed doorway, sauntering across stone lit in the washed out white of graves and heaven. Elani froze, hands instinctively moving towards her satchel before recognizing the visitor and easing once more.

"Figures. Mamaelin could slap so hard it'd make your ears ring for the rest of the day but Flaming Red upstairs will just let me blaspheme myself blue." The elf scooted over on the bench, an unspoken invitation.

"The only redhead I'm worrying about these days is the one you just met. I don't think she stops with a slap." Solace settled into the offered seat, an exchange of smiles confessing both women's relief in finding an ally.

"No. She seems more the spanking type." Elani's snort of laughter was brief but infectious.

"Only on the giving end," the mage agreed, the beginings of a giggle tickling her breath, "She probably has a special paddle for using on all the grand clerics."

"Ugh! Old as some of those hags are? Not about to let their naked, sagging cheeks ruin a perfectly nice fantasy." the thief's entire face twisted in immediate disgust.

"Oh? Had time to work out a few imaginings already, have you? And just whose flesh do you envision under the Most Holy hand?" Solace felt the promise of laughter building in her throat.

"The Cap'n seems like she'd drop her drawers in a heartbeat; not for everyone, mind you, but she had a funny look when the Divine walked in. A bit like the way I look at shit I've stolen when I see it being sold in the markets." Elani did her best to reprise the expression, lidded eyes and a tiny smirk conveying forbidden knowledge and smug pride. It was definitely the look of someone who'd fondled a treasure without anyone else knowing.

Solace pulled up a mental image of the pirate who'd been occupying part of a couch and most of another woman's lap. Darker skin embellished with ink, amber eyes lined in kohl, plush lips above a piercing that made the mage's thighs instinctively clench when she saw it. Then she took the image, flipped it upside down and put the redheaded Divine behind her with the same expression of contented control that hadn't left her face all day.

"I think," Solace had to clear the sudden thickness of lust out of her voice, "I might just borrow that fantasy for later."

"You're welcome to share. Provided you consider letting me lend a hand." Elani scooted a fraction closer on the bench, her voice as playful as the mischief in her smile.

The flirtation was reflexive, an instinct for self-preservation that wanted desperately to forget that the world had been turned upside down. Solace could still see panic and frustration behind the bruised color of the elf's eye. She knew the chaos that was swirling from fear to fury like an ocean storm and she watched each thought flicker a different shade; dawn blue, heavy cobalt, fractured azure, glinting diamond – each emotion was the flash of a brilliant fish's fin scything the surface of waters to vanish again.

"First we need to find a good paddle." Solace tossed a lifeline with her breathy chuckle, drawing the woman even closer, rescuing her from her own thoughts. For a few minutes they could pretend everything was normal. The smoothness of a leather clad leg pressing against chafing wool robes, the exploratory touch of a hand finding fingers and getting used to each other's feel, the welcome warmth of another body radiating its comfort in close space; it was all familiar.

"Tell me," Elani's agitated gaze began to settle, the wide grin beginning to creep into her eyes as well, "How does a beautiful, naughty thing like you end up in a boring place like this?"

Solace laughed. The sound broke free from her throat where it had been trapped for the last few minutes, lost because it hadn't been heard in days. The mage hadn't felt her own sound of freedom in far too long and she reveled in its spasm, the joyous noise bubbling from deep in her chest but reaching all the way up to hum in her skull.

"Didn't you know? I'm the other one that the Divine is asking to bend over and take it up the ass." It was the first time she had said aloud her own thoughts since finding out that Leliana was still going to use her as a peace offering to the mages.

"Maker. I might have to change my fantasy." Elani bit her lower lip, laughing when the mage shoved her away. She slipped right back into Solace's space with ease, an arm wrapping tight around the taller woman's waist. The strength in the elf's grip came as a surprise.

"You know we can't actually do this, right?" Solace warned, a hand on her face already luring her to lean down.

"'Cause we're symbols and whatnot?" The smaller blonde's eyes lit with wicked delight, spotting the bonus pleasures of a forbidden sin. Solace's lips were close enough now that she could taste brandy on the elf's breath.

"Because you're stuck on ideas of fucking with the Divine," the mage announced, pulling back and laughing when she saw the thief's stricken face, "And I can't get a Seeker out of my mind. They screwed with our heads, Elani. There's no way we're having fun with each other when we're bringing fantasies like that into bed."

"Shit." Elani's groan gave way to a rueful chuckle as she released hold of the Orlesian without argument.

"Sorry." Solace sighed, taking the other woman's hand in her own, a grip of camaraderie replacing the earlier seductions.

"'Salright. Just as well. Probably not safe after screwing around with Zevran anyway." The elf accepted the redefined terms of intimacy with an ironic smirk and sincere squeeze of fingers. They both still desperately needed an ally for what they faced.

The air of the night shifted, a gentle breeze wafting up from the harbor and smelling of sea brine, fresh fish and lingering smoke. Solace quietly reflected that this was the second thought she'd not said out loud before now. Seeker Pentaghast had occupied her mind far more than she could explain. It wasn't pure lust, if it were she'd know how to handle it. (A bold attempt to get the real thing and - when that didn't work - a few hours of make believe with a whore always did the trick). There was an element of fear whenever she thought of the Nevarran woman, a sensation she could only identify as respect. The Seeker had trusted her, set her free, escorted her with a brusque patience that was never without kindness. These past two days in the Grand Cathedral had only intensified Solace's feeling of pleasure whenever the raven-haired noble was near.

She'd brushed it off as basic physical attraction; the warrior was striking, even when she didn't have a weapon in her hands. But a nagging voice of reason pointed out that the Inquisitor was every bit as stunning. (The Divine too, for that matter, and the mage everyone called Hero). There was something different about the Seeker. An unidentifiable magnetism that made Solace want to be close, wanted to make her happy. She felt the echo of her faith in Cassandra. An affection like her own attended the holy words as they filled the Divine's throne room with their song. Solace still didn't believe she could do anything for the Chantry, nor did she entirely want to. But when the Seeker - face radiant with the peace of righteous conviction - looked at her and simply said she could be the future that mage's needed? Solace felt her soul buckle and twist, forcing itself to expand into the size and shape of the woman reflected in the warrior's gaze. It was an entirely new kind of desire. She longed to be whatever Cassandra saw.

"We're both screwed," the mage groaned at the horror of her thoughts, leaning equally into the support of Elani's shoulder, "And not the way we want to be."

* * *

" _With passion'd breath does the darkness creep.  
It is the whisper in the night, the lie upon your sleep." __-Transfigurations 1:5_

In her time with the Inquisition, Eve Trevelyan had learned that there was a key to communicating with each member of her inner circle. They were all unique puzzles in their motivations and reasonings; persuading them to open up to her, to cooperate and even support her decisions, that required deciphering the code of their being.

Some were easy. Varric would go along for a good story, Dorian for a lark. Iron Bull eagerly joined anything that promised violence while Sera giggled in glee at the prospect of kicking any noble's arse. They were the first to become friends. The others were more wary and therefore more difficult. She'd had to learn the chivalry that coursed through Blackwall's veins and the desperate need to reconcile past wrongs that plagued Cullen. To understand Solas she'd only had to keep an open mind and see his perspective; to do the same with Vivienne required clenching her ass so tight she might turn inside out. Cole was beyond comprehension but he listened when people told him what was right and wrong; more importantly, he absorbed whatever Eve said when she told him what was human. She could lure Morrigan into anything with the promise of lost secrets or increased knowledge. Josephine was persuaded by a more gentle touch: a perfectly timed cup of tea or just the puppy-dog eyes she so often accused the Inquisitor of turning on her.

Of all her friends, Eve struggled the longest to find the beating heart that drove the Hands of the Divine. Their duty and faith obscured so much of their true feelings, it was almost impossible to differentiate responsibility from passion. Cassandra's anger was easier to crack than Leliana's silence. Before the Herald of Andraste assumed the mantle of Inquisitor, she'd already learned that the Seeker at her side possessed a purity unlike anything that should exist in the mortal realm. She might be blood-stained and jaded but she fought the war of righteousness, not against enemies but against ideas. The key to understanding Cassandra was in knowing she would never stop fighting for what she believed. When she began to believe in Eve, that was when the out of place noble felt she could truly do the impossible.

 _Leliana, though . . ._ The Inquisitor watched as the Divine held a final, quiet conversation with Morrigan and Bethany before dismissing the two mages. Trevelyan remained behind long after the rest of their company had vacated the room. The Seeker had only cast her a vague question in the tilt of her chin, reassured by the other warrior's subtle wave. They'd catch up later and then there would be much to discuss from today. More, once she was done talking with their redheaded ally.

Observing her former spymaster now, Eve noted the confidence of her stride, the radiant light in her eyes when she turned to the only other occupant of the room. The Hero of Ferelden smiled and pulled the Divine into a warm hug, perhaps the most intimacy they were allowed. Trevelyan felt a stab of panged sympathy in her stomach at the way Leliana turned into the scent of her lover's hair, breathing deep and holding tight to all she could have. A few murmured words were exchanged, too soft and low to be overheard but the Inquisitor didn't have to strain to hear the light, airy notes of Sister Nightingale's laughter, melodic as her Orlesian tongue.

The once rare sound was now familiar. It transported Trevelyan back to Skyhold. To card games and dinners, fires and wine and friendship.

" _Then Oghren curses and comes flailing out of the bushes, his pants in one hand, bottle in the other and he's spinning himself in circles trying to catch hold of his axe and flee this damned bear at the same time. For all I know, he pissed on the thing. When he realizes he's going to have to drop something to get his weapon he flings his pants away. All of us dive out of the path like he'd tossed a poison flask and by the time we were on our feet he'd finished the beast off. Singlehanded, without ever letting go of his drink. Then he drains the rest of the bottle, tucks it under the dead bear's paw and says," Solona's eyes danced as she switched into a voice as deep and rasping as a whetstone, "'That should give the next travelers something to talk about! Ancestor's stony tits, I need another.'"_

_The Inquisitor and Hero had been swapping stories whenever they were together. Dragons, demons, darkspawn, and – deadliest of all – companions; they compared everything, commiserating in complaints and laughter. It had become a habit (when Inquisition business and saving the world didn't get in the way) to spend an hour or two of the evening here in the abandoned drawing room, cocooned in the warmth of crackling logs, smooth brandy and impossible tales._

" _Without any pants?" Cassandra's frown was more disgust than disbelief._

_The Seeker sat beside Trevelyan, relaxing into the plush sofa cushions with less armor than usual – literally and matephorically. This was one of the few places she truly dropped her guard, other than when she was alone with Eve. They were both still growing familiar with the newfound comfort of their relationship, fumbling for the boundaries between intimacy and propriety. In the presence of the Hero and Left Hand, trustworthy friends and longtime lovers, it felt natural to simply be together. A hand resting on a thigh, arms interlinking, the brush of hair away from eyes; the trade of casual touches and subtle affections was easier when Leliana and Solona set the tone._

" _Lady Pentaghast, I cannot tell you how many times Oghren ended up without his pants. He lost the things the way other people misplace a house key. I know that dwarf's ass so well I could tell you where and when he got every scar and pimple." The Warden's sigh was a confusion of fondness and lament._

" _As I recall many of those came from Morrigan, did they not?" Leliana chuckled, reaching across the mage to grab the bottle of brandy for a refill._

_The liquor always lasted much longer when it was just the four of them. All their friends knew where to find them at this time of night and frequently joined the easy fraternity. Hawke often sat with them on evenings when Isabela was already too drunk for any fun or off doing jobs for the spymaster – an inconvenience the Champion never failed to harangue the redhead over. On those nights the brandy wasn't safe and neither were the servants._

" _Most of them, yes, my love," Solona agreed, settling an arm around the other woman's shoulder, "Andraste's flames, that dwarf was stubborn. His hide looks like he had a bad case of plague from all the times that witch shot sparks at his naked bum. Never stopped him. Those white cheeks would be covered in burns and he'd still just bend over and ask if she was enjoying the view."_

" _She never struck me as prudish." Eve puzzled, wondering why an apostate who was raised in the wilds and could change to animal form would even care if someone was naked. In her time with Morrigan, the Inquisitor had concluded that the only sin she wouldn't tolerate was ignorance._

" _You must understand, my friend," Leliana's dulcet voice slowed to a gentle caress on these nights, languid warmth washing into her words, "Morrigan did not object to a bare backside, but to an ugly one. I confess I shared her view; in every way, unfortunately."_

_That brought laughter from all sides and the four women's voices echoed off the stone walls and rose out the chimney with the smoke._

"You and the Hero have a trait in common, Inquisitor." Divine Victoria's voice playfully teased Trevelyan back to the present. They were alone now, the Warden having vanished.

"Our stunning taste in women?" Eve's brow danced with diabolic intent, reclining back more comfortably into her seat, arms crossed for the coming verbal joust.

"Two traits then," Leliana tilted her head, the corner of her mouth surrendering a trace of pleasure at the riposte, "But you both have the same look about your eyes when you are thinking of times past. You slide into memories the way others change shoes."

"Most Holy, I've seen your taste in footwear. I think our sojourns in history are far easier than strapping into those Orlesian monstrosities." Trevelyan jibed, gesturing for the Divine to join her on the settee if she so deigned. She did, with a smile. The holy posterior sat on stuffed goose down and the second round began.

"You are smug, Inquisitor. I cannot help but wonder: what has you so pleased?" Leliana partially turned to fully observe every twitch and nuance of her ally's expression.

"You gave away your biggest secret today, Nightingale. It was surprising. I don't mean the business about Elani. Aside from all that, you let slip the one fact that you've been careful to conceal for as long as I've known you." Eve rotated as well, making sure her face was fully visible with nothing to hide. A smirk this pleased deserved an audience.

"And what secret might that be?" The redhead's breathy chuckle was already entertained. The Inquisitor had that gift; people listened to her simply to hear what might come next. Many times it had kept her alive long enough to kill her enemy first. Trevelyan leaned closer to her friend and former spymaster to unveil the mystery.

"That you're the scariest bitch of us all," Eve grinned as she saw the laugher in Leliana's eyes before it even reached her lips, then – because she loved an amused audience – she continued, "Sure, Morrigan growls more and Cassandra and I stab everything, but you? Your Perfection, you have made an art of fear. A dagger in the heart ends a life; a dagger in the mind changes its direction."

"In the case of that thief, it may end up being both." The Divine's eyes rolled like an aggravated prayer, the whistle of a shooting arrow underneath her sigh.

No one knew what Leliana was capable of the way Trevelyan did. No one else saw that terrifying, nightmare future with the scarred bard brutally massacring enemies while quoting scripture. Dorian was too busy with his spell, only the Inquisitor was privy to the sight of her spymaster's fullest dark potential. It was a sight she'd never forget. In that parallel, almost fictitious moment, Eve learned her most important lesson about Leliana. She learned that she could have no stronger ally or worse enemy. Cassandra was a force of nature but Leliana a supernatural one. Demon and Divine, housed in one flesh.

"You won't hurt her. For one thing, Hawke and Isabela both seem to like her too much to let you," Trevelyan chuckled as she saw her friend's frustrated frown of agreement, "And we both know you won't kill her because it would be wrong."

"Ah, now you are accusing me of bluffing, yes?" Leliana easily read between the lines of the Inquisitor's words. They'd spent over a year perfecting this dance; understanding everything that wasn't actually said. It was entertaining in their private debates, useful at the war table and bloody essential at diplomatic functions. The Seneschal subtly stopped her leader from stabbing anyone in the eye while Eve made sure the spymaster knew she wasn't allowed to poison them behind her back.

"Don't be ridiculous. We both _know_ you were bluffing. I'm actually accusing you of being a little overly dramatic about it. Honestly, Leliana, when did you become so theatrical?" Trevelyan tried for Vivienne's haughty notes of weary condescension but she couldn't quite twist her tongue the same way the Imperial Enchanter did. Which likely explained her success as a mistress.

"Probably around the time I started listening to you." The redhead's mocking tone was full of amusement but, around the edge of her smile, Eve saw the hint of sincerity.

That was the key to understanding Sister Nightingale, rogue, bard and spymaster. She was the last mystery to be unlocked, the one that took longer than any of her other companions. The Inquisitor had all but given up before the final piece of the puzzle slid into place with the sound of a dagger being sheathed. She realized that Leliana truly did listen. Not to her specifically, (as she might claim) but to her heart. A heart that - no matter how brutal and calloused it sometimes seemed – was ultimately still governed by higher law. She had to be reminded of it from time to time, when grief or anger threatened to swallow her whole, but Eve had yet to see Leliana know the right path and not take it. Even with a blade poised at a traitorous throat in the sanctum of her own most cherished and heartbreaking memories, the Left Hand could still yield to mercy over pain. From that moment, the Inquisitor understood the woman in the shadows.

"Right. Try using that as an excuse when Hawke figures out you lied to her and deliberately sent her on a wild nug chase." Trevelyan got to her feet to move towards the exit. She'd said everything she needed to, or rather, almost everything.

"The Champion loves nothing so much as an officially sanctioned excuse for mayhem. As that debacle on the docks would prove," Leliana dismissed the concern, following the warrior to the door, "I needed Elani _and_ the record book, Hawke's company successfully delivered both. I assure you, if they thought me disingenuous it is no more than they have seen in the past."

"Why both? You already knew what the research said. Why did you make them take all those risks if you already had the answer?" Eve gave voice to the puzzle she'd been trying to force into some recognizable shape of logic.

"My dear Inquisitor, playing the Game isn't about the answers you know but the questions you can make others ask," the Divine's gentle breath of laughter sounded like wisdom older than time, "When this truth comes to light every Andrastean will be forced to ask themselves about everything they thought they knew of the Chantry and elves. If Andraste, the Maker's own Beloved, could fall in love with an elf – even bear his child – what right have we to bar them from our ranks? It will be time to revisit the thoughts and prejudices that have marred the Maker's mortal family for too long."

"So this has been all about the Unification?" Trevelyan couldn't hide her suspicion. She trusted Leliana completely, but that didn't mean she had to accept anything the deceptive woman said at face value.

"With properly placed facts, a few carefully murmured rumors or even an excessively 'theatrical' revelation, I can shake the faithful to their roots until the Chantry reforms without my even uttering a word." Divine Victoria's smile was far too proud to be beatific. She was going to accomplish the impossible. She would change their world without seduction, gold or blood; though her triumph was built on the ashes of all three.

"I can't help thinking that a cynical person, someone looking from a distance, might see more than just altruistic motives in all this," Eve paused before reaching the door, delaying her departure as she spun out her own contrasting theory, "Because it seems to me that a lot of people, when they find out Andraste had a lover, will realize she was cheating on both her husband _and_ the Maker. That might make them more inclined to turn a blind eye to officials in the Chantry doing the same. I could even imagine that a number of sisters and mothers would want to redefine the rules about chastity and the like."

The smile on Leliana's coral lips didn't even shudder. If anything, the sparkling delight in her eyes only got brighter. She looked much like a tutor, pleased with her pupil's progress. Not that she would admit anything of the kind.

"Many of the Divines were known to carry on affairs while holding the Sunburst Throne. You would have to think me very vain to have done all this simply for the sake of my love life." The playful scolding told Eve that while she wasn't right, she also wasn't completely wrong.

"No. I think you are very clever, Leliana. And very much in love." Trevelyan crossed her arms, radiating an affectionate challenge. Not even with all her bard training would the rogue dare deny such facts.

"But of course, Inquisitor," Nightingale had a thousand smiles for secrets but only one for truth, "After all, those are the two traits _we_ have in common, yes?"

With a fluid movement Divine Victoria opened the door, revealing the moonlit gallery and a single figure waiting by a pillar. Had she known the Seeker would be there? Was it simply an educated guess? Or one of those universally orchestrated coincidences of timing? Eve didn't get the chance to ask. The door had already closed behind her, erasing the fleeting glimpse of affectionate warmth she'd spied in the redhead's eyes. She winked. Trevelyan was certain of it.

"Did you find out what you needed?" Cassandra strolled to meet the Inquisitor halfway.

Trevelyan paused, watching shadows play around the Nevarran's finely edged features. The Left and Right Hands were so different. Where one could disappear into darkness, the other chased it away. Leliana made a cloak of night; Cassandra polished her armor and shone like a beacon.

"I'm on the right trail but probably the wrong country." Eve shook her head, easily slipping into the intimate space they shared when no eyes could watch. Moonlight created a delicate glow like porcelain over the Seeker's face.

"Patience. Leliana has been planning this spectacle for some time. She will not have her hand forced." Cassandra wisely counseled, years of working with the Left Hand granting her greater tolerance for such games.

"I know the cards she holds and who she plays against," Trevelyan absently bit her lower lip, a sign of distracted thought that she only allowed herself in private, "I just need to know how much she's gambling. The stakes are high, Cassandra. I can feel it. If she fails, if anything goes wrong -,"

"We will be there," the Seeker immediately silenced her worries, "Leliana is not impulsive, unlike ourselves. If she's at risk it is because there's something more important than herself at stake. This is still the Game. She gambles her life, her position, her power; possibly the future of the Chantry and its kingdoms. You and I will not let her lose."

"Maker, I'm glad you didn't become Divine." the Inquisitor sighed, relaxing into the arms that had wrapped easily around her shoulders.

The hard plates and edges of armor only intensified the contrasting softness when Cassandra's smiling lips caught her own. She thought briefly of the chaste embrace she'd seen Most Holy share with the Hero, the discipline that trembled beneath aching tenderness. _So very, very glad._ Eve's grip tightened on the other warrior's waist _._ The Seeker, adept at understanding the silent language that passed through her lover's mouth and hands, easily followed the unspoken line of thought. She pulled back from the kiss, leaning closer until Trevelyan could fee the brush of a smile against her ear.

"As am I." The reassurance was offered in a soft whisper but couldn't completely disguise the rasp of longing in her throat. That was a combination of sounds guaranteed to bring the Inquisitor to her knees like a blow from a hammer. She turned, finding the Nevarran's upturned lips once more, praying thanks for this stolen moment and silently promising to return to proper behavior soon. Cassandra's mouth opened against hers, full of artful invitation. Very soon. Fingers threading into her hair were raking away thought. Not too soon. The Seeker's captured moan broke her. _Sod it. I'll just put ten silvers in the donation box tomorrow._

* * *

" _Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places." – Transfigurations 12:1b_

Morrigan listened to the footsteps moving away from her door once more. They'd approached and retreated twice already. Once as far as ten paces, the second time only five before inevitably turning back to linger near her threshold. This time the feet only managed to retreat three paces before surrendering again to inner struggles and returning. Morrigan was waiting.

She pulled the door open as soon as the conflicted would-be visitor arrived on the other side. If Lady de Vici was surprised by the preemptive movement, she showed no sign. Her face was too consumed with other frustrations, edging even to worry. The witch silently stood aside, all the invitation necessary for Ravenel to step into the room. And resume pacing.

"If you were merely interested in wearing ruts into floors, I might have recommended you to some excellent elven ritual mazes." Morrigan settled into a seat, watching the agitated assassin move back and forth.

She offered the thought by way of observation, not complaint. The Lady had a lovely manner of deadly intent in her step, striding across the room in much the same way as when she was bearing down on a victim. All the aggression, the barely contained danger; Morrigan had seen it only in bits and flashes of battle, never so openly on display. Ravenel's usual bearing around the apostate was one of charming seduction; delicate restraint and impulsive desire woven around dignity and intrigue. For all the tenderness of the assassin's touch and words when reaching for Morrigan, the witch was certain that this intensity bubbled underneath. It was the absent piece completing the picture; a very complex, dangerous, undeniably _attractive_ picture. The apostate kept her face unreadable, trusting her marshalled features would conceal the thread of heat easing its way along her skin.

"I think the records are wrong." Ravenel halted, turning to face the witch dead on. She was calming somewhat. The heavy rise and fall of her chest, the visible throb of heartbeat beside her throat; both grew merficully less distracting.

"You doubt your family's own research?" Morrigan thought back to that room in the Archive, hundreds of books that each offered silent, leathery testimony to the effectiveness of House de Vici over the centuries. A legacy written in blood perhaps, but there could be no doubt it was set down with painstakingly accurate detail.

"They weren't all looking at the same people! If that damned theif had let me look at the book sooner I would have realized it," de Vici sank onto a convenient settee, rubbing at pain between her eyes, "One Lady was working on leads in Nevarra while a later one was certain the bloodline went to Rivain. Two generations before my mother they were following a trail that led to Orlais but it went cold and they had to return to Tevinter. The only thing any of the research can agree on is that the line had to start in the Imperium. From there they've chased possible heirs through every kingdom of Thedas!"

"Why are you deciphering the records? Leliana has what she wants." Morrigan, with the precision and swiftness of a striking cobra, honed in on the key fact. Ravenel reacted as if she'd been bitten. The assassin's spine was so rigid it might snap, her body instinctively poised to attack or flee.

"I had always meant to look at the contract in person. My mother often wrote to me about it. The family's only 'unfinished business,' as she called it. I thought I might find some clue of her thoughts within the writing." Her voice was even but the strained control of her words promised she was on defense and that could change at any second.

Morrigan absorbed the forceful defiance of the gaze locked on her, nightshade eyes dark with warning as they had been the first time they argued. Much as she wanted to blame that deceptive kiss in the Archives, the overwhelming softness and warmth that had erased her reason for an endless breath, the apostate was beginning to realize she'd been seduced long before. In the heat of confrontation that first night, the battle of wills that distracted them from the rising taste of desire, Morrigan knew the fire of want had begun to consume them both.

"You decoded more than her research, though," She rose from her own seat and languoursly crossed the room, standing above the Antivan, "You looked back at centuries' worth of records. I don't believe you were looking for family roots, assassin. You were trying to find an excuse."

"Excuse?" Ravenel refused to break eye contact. Her cheeks flushed as if she had been struck but Morrigan couldn't tell if it was the effect of her words or her position. The witch had deliberately compromised them both from this stance. It took phenomenal discipline for the Antivan's eyes to stay so perfectly trained on the towering woman's face.

"Twas obvious today. Your eyes betrayed you when the Divine revealed Andraste's heir. You do not want it to be the thief because, if she is, you are honor bound to kill her." Morrigan focused on the advantage of her position, the power of her knowledge, the triumph of seeing a frisson of guilty surprise darting through de Vici's defense. She had to concentrate on all of that to ignore being so close, each heated rush of the assassin's breath sent gooseflesh across the naked skin above her belt.

Instead of replying Lady de Vici rose slowly - deliberately -to her feet, evening their footing once more. Challenge in the set of her jaw, anger shadowing the color of her face, the tension that twitched in her fingers; all this Morrigan recognized. This was the intensity she was used to with passion, the danger that was supposed to run like an undercurrent beneath animal urges, ever poised to rip each other apart in their own need. She could understand this, echo it, yield to its power or subdue in its wake.

It vanished.

Morrigan felt as if invisible hands had reached past her lungs and yanked on the cords of her life, the shift of feeling so intense she couldn't even claw at the shreds of her own receding balance. This was what fish had to feel like when they were forsaken by the sea, cast ashore by fickle tides. Resignation filled the void of Ravenel's eyes as she reached up and brushed the lines of confusion marring the apostate's beautiful features. The witch reflexively reached to push the touch away, confused as to why her fingers ended up interlaced with the assassin's own.

"You are correct, my lady. I had once thought I might fulfill this overdue contract and close one last debt of my family's accounts. I cannot kill the elf that saved me. No matter how selfish the motivation, I owe her my life. But you are wrong as well." De Vici's silken touch and low tone were luring Morrigan unconsciously closer, equally intent on the words as on the lips shaping them.

"About what?" Pride had a way of keeping the witch's thoughts in place, defying the rule of her senses in favor of the demands of her mind.

"I was not seeking reason to avoid my duty. I was searching for an excuse to linger here." The sigh of that final word, little more than a breath, directed her desired geography not just to Val Royeaux or the Grand Cathedral or even this chamber but to the inches of space they currently occupied.

Morrigan could feel that damnable, uncomfortable warmth rising in her chest. The sensation that felt like melting armor and smothering sweetness, a melancholy longing that was insufferably weak but somehow overwhelming in its power. It kept happening, exiled to the back of her mind only to return ever stronger like banked coals reignited with breath. Perhaps it _was_ breath: the flow of air across her skin, the taste against her lips that was very nearly touch. She'd never understood why people could refer to certain relationships as 'playing with fire,' but now she was getting the first hints of that tantalizing danger. Just blow on the embers . . .

"And did you?" Morrigan let the question tease off her tongue. Dragons aren't scared of fire. She wasn't even touching the assassin's body but she could feel the tremble that wracked her from head to toe. She wasn't the only one losing to weakness. By the way Ravenel's breath paused she could tell the answer wasn't going to come in words.

"Mother?" A young, sleepy voice shattered the tension like a warhammer hitting bone. De Vici's reflexes shot her back and over the couch before the witch even realized she'd moved. Morrigan quelled the curse forming on her tongue, frustration aching in the back of her jaw.

"Are you alright, Kieran?" Morrigan turned to her son. The sight of him innocently rubbing his eyes completely dispelled any irritation. His hair was a ruffled mess and he was fighting a yawn. The witch strode over, smoothing the disarrayed locks back into place and stroking his cheek with every mother's lullaby touch.

"I heard arguing. I thought it was the Inquisitor." Kieran's eyes swept to the paralyzed assassin, disappointment sinking his brow.

"Lady Trevelyan is not the only person I argue with." The witch reasoned, relieved that her son had only heard anger in their primal tones, not the deeper conflict.

"But you always sound like you still like her. That's what makes her different." Kieran refused to be deterred.

Morrigan had been confounded to find that even without Urthemiel's soul, her son retained his preternatural skills of observation. Her glance slid briefly to Ravenel, noting that the assassin was still too absorbed in studying the boy to understand what he'd said. But the Antivan was distracted, not oblivious; eventually the words would register if she didn't intercede.

"This is Lady de Vici of Antiva. She is a friend." The apostate offered the introduction with casual aplomb, a blasé ease to her tone that she didn't entirely feel. Friend was an overstatement, but any other word she might use wouldn't be appropriate for a child.

Ravenel snapped out of her reverie when she heard her name, brain finally cutting through the bizarre circumstances to find the reality staring her in the face. Because Kieran was, in fact, staring her in the face. Mercilessly. _'Twill be most interesting to see how the Lady responds._ Morrigan stood back and folded her arms, prepared to silently watch the awkward encounter unfold.

"A pleasure, young ser." The Antivan executed a perfect curtsy, regaining full use of her noble blood and breeding.

"You seem nice for someone who kills a lot." The dark haired child observed with his unique brand of simple innocence. Morrigan could feel her brow climbing higher, waiting for the assassin to look to her for explanation or guidance – most people did the first time they met her son.

"How do you know that I do?" Ravenel puzzled, momentarily forgetting the awkwardness of the introduction in favor of this new mystery.

"Because you wear death." Kieran shrugged easily. He might've noticed the secret arsenal of poisons and daggers spread throughout de Vici's loose garb. Or, as Morrigan thought more likely, he continued to exercise that otherworldly ability to see into people for what they were. He saw death in Ravenel, yet he was unfazed. If anything, he was intrigued.

"Caught," the assassin surrendered with a smile, leaning back against the edge of the settee as she grew comfortable, "And _you_ , ser, seem very wise for your years. I would suppose that comes from your mother. Small wonder you are the most important man in her life."

"But I'm only a boy." He objected, confused by the praise.

He was enjoying the attention, eyes already filling with questions and excuses to monopolize this new stranger's time and avoid going back to bed. In the fascination of his gaze Morrigan imagined she saw a version of her own interest in the Antivan. The Witch of the Wilds felt that foreign warmth slithering through her breath again, the kind that threatened to clench fingers around her heart and squeeze until it beat to a different time.

"For now." Ravenel conceded, one shoulder shifting in mirror performance of the child's earlier shrug. Morrigan burst into laughter at the sheer irony of those words. Kieran and de Vici were both momentarily confused. Then the assassin realized the full impact of what she'd said and color suffused her cheeks, hasty to clarify her error.

"Enough for now, Kieran. Back to bed. You will have ample opportunity to speak with Lady de Vici," Morrigan's eyes turned from the boy to the assassin, color changing from gentle gold to yellow flame, "She wishes to stay here for some time."

"Yes, Mother." Her son's dutiful and obedient training turned him on his heel with little more than a sigh of protest.

"If," the word left Ravenel's mouth like a reflex, teeth biting her lip before a glance from the apostate gave her consent to continue, "If you like, I could visit tomorrow. Your mother tells me that you have a collection of dragon scales to rival any in Thedas."

"You like dragons?" Kieran's face lit up so bright he might set his own hair on fire. Now Morrigan had to bite the inside of her cheek, caught between the delight of her son and the burning glide of de Vici's eyes over her skin.

"Kieran," Ravenel broke the barriers of age and rank, dragging her gaze back towards the child, "I do not think I have ever seen a more magnificent creature."

"I have lessons until noonday but you could come after." The poor boy was suspended in an agony of hope, ever mindful that his mother's allies often had urgent business and pressing needs. He'd not impose. But he'd hope. It was one of his qualities that always broke Morrigan's heart because she had no such emotion in herself. She could barely stand to hear the assassin's answer, in case it broke the fragile joy in his eyes.

"I will see you for the midday meal then. We can dine over wyverns, drakes, and a particularly delectable sweet bun that I know to find here in Val Royeaux. Assuming your mother allows it." At the last second the Antivan remembered she needed permission before promising too much.

"After he finishes his studies, not a moment sooner." Morrigan tried to be stern with the collaborators but her smirk was clearly playing traitor to her thoughts.

"I have a scale from an Abyssal High Dragon! Do you know how rare they are? The Inquisitor gave it to me -," Kieran's excitement plunged rapidly ahead into his favorite subject.

"Tomorrow, Kieran. To bed now, little man." Morrigan interrupted her son's enthusiasm before he could gather full speed, combing her fingers fondly through his hair before turning him back toward his room.

"Yes, Mother. Good night." The mournful sigh was his final, passive protest. Only when his door was closed did either adult dare speak. The apostate tried to get her words in first but she was preempted.

"He's beautiful, my lady, and so very much yours." De Vici marveled, turning back to the witch with a breathtakingly naked sincerity in her face. More than Kieran's disappointed pout, or the earlier sexually charged tensions, this budding affection in the assassin's eyes promised to be Morrigan's undoing. She couldn't breathe, not with the heat beneath her lungs and speed of her heartbeat. The warmth that had been writhing beneath her ribs uncoiled, trying to spread with the flow of her blood to every extremity of her body, threatening to make her either melt or explode. Of the two choices, she preferred the louder.

Without a word she caught the other woman, pressing her into the wall and closing the distance between them. For the space of a breath she paused, savoring the position that so mirrored their first embrace, absorbing the feel of the body that completely surrendered to her hold, relishing the hesitant part of lips like a question waiting to be answered. The first brush of a kiss was all the softness and longing that she'd grown to expect in Ravenel's touch. The second gave voice to Morrigan's own need, the hungrier persuasions that begged for minds and emotions to be left behind long enough to answer flesh. An unspoken argument ensued, punctuated in gasping breath and clenching hands. By the third meeting of lips she had her way, Ravenel yielding adoration to ardor. Fingers artfully undid the witch's hair, tangling in the dark tresses to pull her impossibly closer and intensify the kiss, dragging a moan from Morrigan. That uncomfortable feeling behind her ribs, the tightness of emotions she didn't understand, unraveled with her body. The warmth in her chest was forced to travel decidedly lower; back to familiar territory.


	31. Act VIII:i Morning Rituals

_Night's heavy hand still rested over the Grand Cathedral but a practiced eye would be able to see the first indigo shades of dawn paling on the horizon._

There were half a dozen secret entrances into the chamber of the Divine. Perfect for reporting spies, private political meetings and - because the holy women were still women - secret liaisons. The Warden knew every one of these clandestine routes and meticulously avoided them all. Instead, she timed her arrival outside the main entrance of Divine Victoria's bedroom to coincide with the servant bringing the morning tea. With no more than a smile of familiar greeting, the girl handed off the tray to the Hero and returned to her other duties. In less than a week it had become their own ritual.

Solona pushed into Leliana's bed chamber, not even bothering to glance at the bed that was so perfectly assembled it was impossible to know if it had been used. Many of the Divines of the past had been known to rise early for devotions and plotting but Victoria's inhuman hours had most of the cathedral convinced she never slept at all. The Hero set the tray on a table, threw out the dry leaves that had been provided for brewing and drew a small satchel from the folds of her long coat. The blend was specially imported and delivered to Solona herself. When a thousand people wanted the Most Holy dead, poison was never far from anyone's lips. Besides, this tea reminded them both of easier times.

"He's adding more black powder than he used to, don't you think?" Leliana appeared behind the Warden as if she were conjured by the rising steam. She rested an arm on the other woman's shoulder, easily propping her chin to watch the practiced hands go through the stages of brewing.

"I think it's just because we're mostly sober these days. Oghren intended it to be a hangover cure, after all." Solona smiled as the familiar scent brought back damp grass, sooty clothes and far more empty wine skins than any camp of 'heroes' should ever have.

"It was quite useful for that, as I recall. Didn't you once have three cups by accident? Our little friend had to pin you to the ground and pour a bottle of ale down your throat just to balance the effect." Leliana's breath of laughter tickled the back of the Warden's ear and the porcelain cup and saucer tinkled noisily in her shaken hand.

"'Little?'" Solona recovered herself gracefully, turning to hand the Divine her tea, "Let him sit on your chest while cursing at you to swallow before your head explodes; then tell me just how petite he seems."

"You vowed not to drink again after that. A promise you kept for all of three days." The redhead's eyes glittered like the facets of cut diamond, leading the Hero out to the balcony where they could watch the shadows creep away.

"I also got stuck in the middle of five arguments between Morrigan and Wynne. That would make anyone reach for a bottle." Warden Amell frowned as she recalled the final break to her discipline. It was either resume drinking or blow up two of her allies. If she was going to suffer constant headaches she'd damn well inflict them herself.

"Mages can make peace very difficult, no?" Leliana sighed, the problems of the present obscuring any memory of the past. The first few sips of Oghren's secret blend chased away the fatigue of what had clearly been another restless night. Solona saw the shadows and lines around her beloved's eyes soften as the tea worked its wonders.

In these early morning hours the bard wore neither the vestments of Divine nor the shroud of spymaster. Simple leggings and a long shirt made her seem far younger than her years. The rumpled fabric was a comfortable indulgence, the unlaced collar a casual indiscretion. She looked delicate as the porcelain in her hands. The Warden reached across and rested a hand on the redhead's arm, reminding herself of the iron strength housed in what seemed like such a vulnerable shell. Not only did she see the flash of steel beneath Leliana's eyes when she smiled to her, Solona also felt the mechanism strapped beneath her sleeve that was loaded with a poison tipped dagger. Enemies underestimated the new Divine at their own risk.

"We're just not accustomed to the idea. Mages fight demons, their own powers, Templars and when none of that's any fun anymore they fall to bickering with each other. What do you expect when the only reason we were allowed to live was to be used in times of war?" The Hero's shrug apologized for her kind but still managed to reproach the world that had shaped them.

"You are more than that. All of you. The Chantry will see that mages aren't just weapons and have a place in our society." Leliana's gaze fell to the city that spread in every direction, gradually turning gold with the first rays of dawn.

"Of course we do," Solona agreed, content to study her love's profile rather than ponder the gravity of her words, "Mine happens to be in bed beside you so get a move on that, will you?"

"You are nearly as bad as Isabela." The Divine laughed, any attempt at rebuke in her tone completely erased by the affection of her smile.

"Given as I know our Captain's many talents, I'll take that as a compliment." The Hero winked, the flash of teeth in her grin full of recollections guaranteed to be a sin in this holy place.

"Thinking of our allies, my agents tell me they were all quite high-spirited last night." Leliana wisely shifted the conversation away from dangerous territory.

"A few broken windows, bottles stolen from the kitchen, a missing servant girl but I'm sure she'll show up. Fairly ordinary for this lot." Solona easily dismissed the accusation. Whatever her cousin's friends had gotten up to couldn't be worse than the Inquisitor's people. And none of them could do more harm than her own allies years ago.

"I can recall similarly boisterous behavior on the last night before the battle for Denerim." The Divine's eyes slid knowingly toward the Hero, reading the shift of her thoughts.

"If you mean Morrigan and Alistair I can assure you: no one was having hate sex to save the world last night." The Warden adamantly shook her head, smirk growing into a grin at her beloved's frustrated amusement.

"Don't be so certain. We were always surprised by what Anora was capable of, no?" Leliana's musical voice mellowed sarcasm to mere teasing.

"Poor Alistair. From one scary witch to another." Solona shook her head, still sympathetic to the matrimonial misery that politics had inflicted on her friend. The duties of the Chantry and Wardens might have separated her and her beloved over the years but they'd never been forced into anyone else's arms. It was a fate she couldn't even contemplate.

"There may not have been any hate in the blasphemies and indulgences of last night but there was a restlessness," the Divine returned to her original point, "Our friends are the sort that can smell danger in the wind. They are anxious for an enemy that they can see."

The Warden knew the exact edginess Leliana referred to; it was the tension that gripped soldiers and survivors alike when they sensed trouble brewing, the smell of battle like a coming storm on the wind. It was the unconscious worry that had been coiling her muscles into knots and surging magic beneath the surface of her skin for days. But it was different now. This morning she awoke to the knowledge that more power was consolidated at her fingertips than had been available during the whole of the Blight. It was no longer only the faithful, noble and loyal that stood beside her to protect what was most dear. Now her allies included the amoral, conniving, terrifying and downright, batshit crazy. Now she had an army she could use.

"I think, Most Holy," Solona's smile grew wider as mischief filled her tone, "That for once it's a good thing you have enough enemies to go around."

* * *

_Sunlight was beginning its slow, fractured creep between the towers of Val Royeaux; slivers of gold threading their way towards the pillars on the edge of the Cathedral courtyard._

"You stole my pillow again, Sparky." Iron Bull's morning voice was like iron wheels dragging over deep ruts.

"It's Sparkler, barbarian. And you wouldn't know the difference between goose down and druffalo bones." Dorian tried to argue back but most of the authority of his tone was lost in the yawn that interrupted him halfway. He clutched the pillow in both hands and burrowed his face deeper into the plush softness.

"I know mine didn't have these pretty little teeth marks in it. Hand it over, Vint."A massive hand like stone armor reached out and tugged at the edge of the cushion.

"Technically those are your fault. Besides, it can hardly matter. With those horns the only thing your head could be comfortable on is a wall mount." Dorian had a tendency to be surly in the early morning. A sharp spark of magic caught Bull's finger, warning him away.

"You want to talk about heads and mounting this early? Nug balls, I thought you got enough last night." The warrior chuckled, no longer pulling on the pillow but not surrendering hold either as he shifted closer.

"That wasn't what I meant." The mage rolled over so he could scowl properly at the smug Qunari.

"Sure it wasn't. Tell you what, I'll give you two minutes to give me the pillow or that shapely little ass of yours is going to need it for sitting on for the next three days." Bull's seductive warning rumbled deep enough to make Dorian's stomach tremble with the vibration. For the space of a few tantalizing seconds the magister contemplated the threat, toying with the long term costs in exchange for what promised to be instant if momentary pleasures. Ultimately his dignity won out over more base impulses. Trevelyan would never let him hear the end of it if he squirmed in his seat during the ceremonies. He could already picture the Inquisitor's knowing grin teasing him from across the room.

"You're a thug, ox-head." The mage pouted and shoved the pillow at the Qunari, pushing himself up to rise from the bed.

"Get back here, Sparky," Iron Bull caught the man's arm and hauled him back to crash against the solid wall of his torso, "Now that my horned head is comfortable on a good pillow, I'm feeling generous."

"It's Sparkler." Dorian stubbornly corrected again, still fond of the nickname Varric had given him just after they met.

"No," Bull rolled them both over, the contested pillow getting flung off the edge of the bed in the sudden turn, "It's Kadan."

"Romantic." Dorian grinned but made no attempt to conceal the warmth of his pleasure as he pulled the mighty warrior down to his will.

* * *

_The full beams of day were illuminating every chamber and corridor of the Grand Cathedral, warming the dutiful who rose easily to their day and torturing the stubborn who fought to squint out the herald of waking._

"Right, heads and you wake Hawke; tails I do." Bethany's voice reached down the hallway to prick the Warden's ears as she made her way back towards the public rooms.

"Fine." The brusque reply had the familiar accent of home and Solona gravitated towards the conversation. Turning the corner she found her younger cousin and the redheaded guard captain of Kirkwall watching a flipped coin spinning in the air like their lives depended on it. They actually might, given that having to awaken Hawke (and, by default, Isabela) was riding on the outcome of that single revolving disc. Bethany's hand shot out and snagged the coin, slapping it hard against her arm. The mage's eyes met the warrior for a long second and both held their breath before fingers lifted and revealed the answer.

"Blast and damnation! Sorry, Maker," Bethany remembered at the last second where she was standing, "Best two of three?"

"Not a chance. You lose, my friend." Aveline's wide smile was full of relief with her victory.

"I might have interfered with the coin's landing. We should do it again and let it go all the way to the floor. I'm sure it would've been tails if we let it fall all the way." The mage tried again, twirling the coin back and forth across her fingers like a magician's trick, something she'd surely learned from the rogues in her life.

"Wait, you want it to be tails?" The Hero announced her presence with the confused question, "But wouldn't that mean you have to wake Hawke?"

"There are worse things, Cousin." Bethany's shoulders sagged under an invisible burden. Solona glanced from her family to her countryman, one eyebrow lifted in silent question.

"Several of our allies have to be roused from bed this morning. Varric already went to pry Zevran away from his sheets and serving girls. That leaves us to decide who has the job of fetching Hawke and who has Merrill." Aveline's eyes were already glinting with ominous plans for dragging her friend from the clutches of sleep and slattern.

"But that makes sense. A mage is the better choice for waking another mage." The Warden knew - from her own experience with waking Morrigan after the apostate was out all night as a bear - that anyone who couldn't conjure a barrier in a split second wasn't qualified to touch a sleeping magic user.

"It isn't Merrill I'm worried about," Bethany groaned but dutifully headed down the corridor.

"Apparently Sera has terribly good aim first thing in the morning," Aveline added by way of explanation as they watched the mage tap nervously on the appropriate door.

"I wouldn't say that," Solona thought of the blonde elf she'd seen causing intermittent mayhem across Skyhold, "I think she's frighteningly good at any time of day."

"Merrill?" Bethany's knocks hadn't received any answer so she eased the door open, diving for the ground as a piece of priceless pottery shot over her head and smashed against the far wall.

"I meant with her bow but that's impressive as well," the Warden had to admit, pleased to see her cousin gather herself off the floor with a spirit of affronted determination.

"Right. We'll do it your way then," the younger Hawke unstrapped her staff, arming herself with a barrier and a barrage of spells, "You have three minutes before I start turning naughty bits into rock!"

A lightning spell shot out of the doorway and ricocheted off the barrier, leaving a singed mark in the rug.

"Oh! Sorry! Bethany, sorry! Fenedhis, I didn't know it was you." Merrill's voice went from sleepy to panicked in less than a second.

"Fucking shoot her again." The grumbled curse accompanied another fragile valuable sailing through the doorway. Bethany was ready for this one and her spun staff sent it flying right back into the bedroom, a heavy thump followed instantly by a pained shout and a succession of breathtaking profanity.

"I didn't know anyone but Oghren could swear like that," Solona wondered.

"I thought the same but with Isabela," Aveline agreed, equally offended and impressed. They watched as the younger warden strode through the doorway and then all they could witness were flashes of magic, more cursing and threats delivered in a tone that would've made Hawke proud if she were awake to hear it. Occasionally a loud crashing noise announced another rebuffed attack or panicked retreat and the whole cycle began over again.

"I have a feeling this could go on for a while. Good luck with Hawke." The Hero exchanged nods with the guardswoman before turning to continue on her way.

She stepped swiftly past the open door, narrowly dodging a stray force spell that rattled the windows. In the brief glimpse she'd caught of the room's occupants there'd been only the sight of two naked elves; one trying to put her head through the sleeve of a robe and apologizing, the other dodging spells while trying to find the arrows that had scattered from her quiver across the floor. Bethany stood at the edge of the chaos herding them both with magic and a solidly scolding tongue. Solona smiled. The girl had never looked more like her sister.

* * *

Cassandra and the Inquisitor were the first to arrive in the throne room of the Divine. Not only because they had arisen earlier than their other allies but because no one else was allowed in until they finished doing a security sweep. Tension was palpable in every servant's breath, every stone of the Cathedral's walls. A worrisome awareness weighed heavily on the minds of everyone going about their business, from the Divine as she dressed for ceremony down to the Chargers strapping on gear and checking their weapons. Servants, soldiers and spies were all cognizant of one fact nagging at the back of their minds, a knot of detail tied into fate:

Three heroes under one roof.

Each was unique in their skills and specializations. They were all different in their experiences and adventures but every one of them was marked with the same kiss of destiny that lent weight to everything they did. Each woman was a lure for trouble in her own way, a lightning rod that grounded the threats and evils of the universe to the patch of ground they protected and here they were all in one place. It felt like the Divine and her allies were thumbing their noses at the universe, daring it to respond to the challenge of such bravery and power dwelling in undisturbed peace.

"No magic," the Seeker announced as she finished hunting for glyphs, traps or the faint trace of lyrium only someone with her skills could detect.

"No traps either, but I'd still like Varric to take a second look." The Inquisitor concurred as she checked the last edges of the balcony.

"Mages and archers on the roof have proven effective so far but I think we should extend the perimeter of our patrols. With a week of song still to be sung the dissidents are bound to increase their attacks." Cassandra strolled into the sunshine, resting her hands on the railing to look down at the rapidly filling courtyard.

"Why don't we just blow the place up ourselves?" Trevelyan pondered, bracing her elbows alongside the Seeker.

"Your sense of humor continues to astound." The Nevarran turned a skeptical – nearly confused – glance at her leader.

"It's going to happen sooner or later. If not today or in our lifetime then certainly in the next. We should just speed it along to get it over with." The Inquisitor sighed. She didn't sound particularly bitter about the inevitable doom but certainly weary of staying fate for so long.

"You woke up on the cheerful side of the bed, I see." The Seeker turned and leaned against the railing, folding her arms to wait.

Before she was in love with the Herald of Andraste, she loved her; if that made any sense. She was an ally, then a leader, a hero and finally a friend. Cassandra knew only that she was fond of the woman for a long time before she understood that she'd fallen for her. How long the two overlapped she couldn't say but sometime after the warmth of friendship and before the head smack realization of romance, the Seeker truly began to understand how complex and amazing a woman Eve was. With that understanding came a store of skills she might never have learned otherwise.

Case in point: the ability to patiently stay silent and wait for the Inquisitor's own festering thoughts to bubble out into the vacuum. It was like watching the slow smolder of coals give way to fire; the merest breath could provoke flame.

"Honestly, Cassandra, look at everything we've done and tell me you don't believe this world is going to rip itself apart the minute we stop holding it together," Trevelyan sighed, turning to mirror the Seeker's stance, "The Empire, the Chantry, even the Inquisition itself; nothing ever stays fixed. The good guys, bad guys, necessities, crimes, friends, enemies; it's all so damned fluid. What happened to sealing a hole in the sky and slaying demons?"

"It was too easy," Cassandra smirked, catching the barest twitch of answering smile on Eve's lips before the stubborn woman bit back on the expression, "Granted, Corypheus was a darkspawn magister with an army of red lyrium templars."

"And a dragon," the Inquisitor added, less inclined to fight her smile this time.

"And a dragon," the Seeker amended, "But he was a visible enemy, one everyone could agree upon. Defeating him seemed impossible only because of his power. The Inquisition has all the power it could want for waging wars now, the most unstoppable army in all Thedas. The trouble is that our problems are no longer solved by force."

"And there are hundreds of them." Trevelyan groaned, rubbing at her eyes as though she were exhausted from a long day when they'd only just arisen.

"But there are also thousands of us," Cassandra reasoned, "I think I know now why the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall both vanished after their greatest victories."

"Why?" Eve's hand unconsciously reached across the balustrade to rest on the Seeker's.

"Because the world turned to them to solve their problems. Everyone wanted them to lead and command but no one gave them the support or power they needed to do so. The Wardens were a broken army. Hawke never had more than the alliances of necessity. Yet the people looked to them both as if performing miracles once wasn't enough, they needed to do it again and again. We were no better, Leliana and I," Cassandra frowned, recalling their hunt for a leader, "We wished to use their reputations and command to unite an army and force the shape of a future for Thedas. It was selfish."

"It was natural. If life provides a hero, what are people to do other than expect heroic things?" The Inquisitor gently brushed away the Nevarran's scowl. This interchange of reassurances was as natural for them as the trade of blows in a sparring ring; taking turns between confession and comfort just as they might alternate offense and defense, whatever the rhythm of their synchrony demanded.

Eve knew that letting the Champion slip through her fingers still haunted the Seeker, the guilt of having failed in that task warred against recriminations for planning to use the hero so callously. In the end the Champion came to the aid of the Inquisition, just not as anyone expected and not as the leader they would have needed from the start.

"You will be different," Cassandra caught the gauntlet that had stroked so tenderly against her cheek, the delicacy of the touch erasing any awareness of metal between them, "You have an army and alliances, all the support you could need. You have the power and authority to truly change this world for the better. Just as Leliana can with the Chantry and I with the Seekers. The days of single heroes fighting for the impossible are gone. We are not alone."

"Damn. Are you sure?" The Inquisitor playfully cast her eyes around the empty throne room, "Because I was just thinking we might celebrate the Maker's love in some decidedly unholy ways."

"Hilarious, as ever." The Seeker's sarcastic rebuke was silenced by a chaste kiss pressed against her lips. As blasphemous and wicked as the Marcher noble tended to be, she revered the passion of Cassandra's faith. Here in the Cathedral, it was palpable to them both. As was the command of duty.

* * *

"Maker's ass this is bollocks!" Sera cursed, glaring at the empty corridor.

"The painting?" Merrill tried to understand her complaint, following her eyes to the artwork on the wall.

"What? No!" The blonde growled, then reevaluated the picture, "I mean, yes. That's rubbish too. Who wants to look at a painting of Maferath when you could be seeing Andraste's perfect tits?"

It was unlikely that anyone had assets like what was depicted in most of the portraits of the Prophet. Anyone other than Isabela, anyway, and there was a reason that woman didn't bother trying to put on normal armor. Anatomy like that wouldn't bloody fit without a hang of a lot of modifications. But Sera wasn't about to complain about artistic license. If the Chantry wanted to paint a magnificent pair of breasts, she'd be only too happy to gaze in appreciation.

"I don't know," Merrill pondered, ever ready to find an answer to rhetorical questions, "People that don't like cookies?"

Sera didn't say anything for several seconds as she processed the comment. After months of knowing the dalish mage she still wasn't entirely sure if she was actually as naïve as she pretended or just taking the piss out of everyone she met. It was the way her answers always had a double meaning, either cleverly pieced together from the conversations of others or purely of her own secret invention. Either way, the brunette tended to say exactly the wrong thing at the wrong moment, which actually meant saying the right thing over all. It was either naiveté or genius and Sera was fascinated by trying to figure out which. It also didn't hurt that years of associating with Captain Isabela had left her with an uninhibited curiosity about all things naughty. A curiosity Sera thoroughly enjoyed satisfying.

"Fair enough but what I meant is it's rubbish us being stuck walking around here. What're we going to find? Malicious dust bunnies?" The blonde resumed her original complaint, the scrape of her boots scuffing along the marble floors made a perfect echo to her petulant mood.

"That would be something new, wouldn't it?" Merrill mused on the thought, "But I think Hawke's more worried about assassins. Other than the ones she brought back, of course, because they're both quite nice. Although Lady de Vici does have an odd way of saying nice things while looking like she wants to kill people. Zevran is funny but he keeps asking about what kind of small clothes I wear."

"After my own heart, that one. Wouldn't he be surprised today!" An impish grin split Sera's face, swift fingers pinching the mage and giggling at her squeal.

"I still think we should look for them." Merril blushed then spun and moved beyond reach before the blonde could repeat the attack.

"You want to wind your way through that mess in the courtyard? Tell all the pilgrims and such that you're looking for your knickers what got flung out the window last night cause you were too impatient to let me get 'em off? That'd just go over grand." The archer snickered at the idea. A simple gesture promised she was done pinching. For now.

"Someone probably found them." Merrill had an adorable way of biting the inside of her lower lip when she was worried. Or confused. Or frightened, concentrating, distracted, sad, busy – anything really, other than happy or mad.

"Sure, some four year old whose been dragged to the Chant by his blind granny might be wearing them as a hat," the blonde grinned at Merrill's laugh, "Or they're now the prize possession of some pervert that thinks they're his own private reward from the Maker."

"Do perverts attend enthronement ceremonies?" The dalish elf still wasn't clear on many aspects of shem culture and society.

"They do today. They had to let Isabela in." Sera pointed out, all too pleased to imagine the horrified expressions of every cleric, mother and noble that must've greeted the Queen of the Eastern Seas as she swaggered into the Divine's throne room.

She and the pirate had made friends quick and easy enough over a few bottles of liquor, some shared reminiscences of Denerim (more specifically the Pearl) and one drunken impulse to compare scars that led to far more nudity than the Herald's Rest had seen since the victory celebrations. The memory got a bit fuzzy around that point but Sera was pretty sure Hawke had arrived and hauled Isabela away, leaving the elf to sit half naked on the stairs finishing off two mugs of whiskey. She woke up the next morning fully naked under the bar with Merrill. The brunette had vaguely stirred awake at Sera's prodding, then rolled over and handed her a bottle as a bribe to make her lay still while she finished sleeping. She also shot a sleepy, badly aimed spark of fire at Cabot when he tried to chase them out. Maker bless her bony body, that was the day Sera realized the mage was a keeper.

"Yes, but that wasn't really their choice. Divine Victoria wanted the Champion and Inquisitor both to be there today and Hawke refused to attend if Isabela wasn't with her." Merrill clearly thought anyone who intended to keep the pirate and her lover separate were morons. Morons with very short life expectancies.

"An that's why we're the ones stuck out here doing sweeps of this ghost house instead of still warm in bed!" The rogue triumphantly brought the conversation full circle.

"Are you that sleepy? You didn't seem tired this morning," the mage helpfully pointed out, brimming with well-meaning sympathy.

It was . . . well, there was no other word for it: it was endearing. Merrill had this way about her of caring for everyone and thing that crossed her path with such a passionate generosity of spirit that it was impossible not to want to save her from herself. Sera had never thought she could get on with a dalish (mage, no less); they never shut up about the plight of elvhen and the desolation of their peoples, the betrayals, loss of legacies, forgotten heritage, moan bloody moan sob moan. Merrill wasn't that sort.

She was the opposite of Solas in every way. He was boring, she was hilarious; he was strict, she once challenged Sera to see who could stand naked at an open window the longest; Solas wanted to help the elves, Merrill wanted to help anyone who needed it. She was doing her best in her corner of the world for the people who needed it most, which Sera had begun to see wasn't all that different from Red Jennies keeping little folk from getting crushed too flat.

She had heart, like the Inquisitor, but she never let life get her down. Whatever nightmares she'd lived through and bad shit haunted her, she was still the woman that could walk across a bloody battlefield and see only flowers blooming on the other side. Sera watched her studying ants, collecting herbs, gazing quizzically at whores; all with the exact same expression of unabashed curiosity, eyes wide enough to devour the world. Not even the mighty leader of the Inquisition accepted everything as easily and happily as the blood mage who could rip people apart from the inside out if she weren't so busy trying to reunite a lost pup with its mother.

Sera giggled hysterically every time the mage tried to tell a joke because she couldn't. She delighted in luring the dalish into mischief or debauchery, knowing she was always up for either one. She wasn't even scared of her magic; the taste of lightning or fire in the air had fused in Sera's mind with excited gasps and fingers tugging at her hair. The rogue relaxed when they were together, on a subconscious level that she hadn't even realized until the first time she fell asleep on the brunette's (bony) shoulder. Sera loved being around Merrill. That was as far as she was willing to think about it though. And she'd already been thinking about it too long from the look on the other woman's face.

"Bed's good for a lot more than sleeping, honey tongue." Sera playfully evaded the silent question in Merrill's eyes, fingers deftly sliding down her arm as a distraction, delighting in the trail of goose bumps that followed her touch.

"I suppose," Merrill tilted her head slightly, eyeing the blonde as if she were contemplating an unspoken offer, "But I don't think we've ever actually _needed_ a bed, have we?"

"I like being flexible. Pretty sure you liked it too," the rogue shot right back, her own gaze narrowing to watch for subtle tells. The mage was playing with her. She was certain of it. Sure, she looked all sweet and such but there was sometimes just a glimmer of cunning beneath the glowing sincerity. A little more black pooling in the middle of all that emerald green. Had anyone besides her ever seen the way Merrill's eyes looked when the innocence vanished?

"I liked that time on the ramparts," the brunette agreed with a happy sigh of memory, "And behind the stables."

"Beardy right about did his nut!" Sera chortled, recalling the sound of frantic woodworking that came from Blackwall's space as he tried to drown out their noise. Probably just needed to keep his hands busy.

"Of course, there was also the time we got stuck in Commander Cullen's wardrobe." Merrill continued her wistful traipse through history. It was a bit like listening to a child list off flavors to determine their favorite. Except Sera could feel the teasing slide of eyes watching her reaction; dancing away as soon as she tried to catch them.

"That was his own fault. I'd only planned on pranking him but he was taking forever on all that bleeding paperwork!" The rogue groaned; recalling how the thrill of almost being caught in sabotage had bled away to boredom as they listened to the skritch-skritch-skritch noise that threatened to drill straight into her skull. It was completely inevitable that they find some way of entertaining themselves in the meantime. Their silent game nearly made Merrill pass out. Sera could still hear the exact tone of her stifled breath in that closed wooden space and the smell of the oak as it filled with warmth.

"Ooh!" The brunette clapped her hands excitedly, "Remember when we were supposed to be unloading that wagon of supplies from the Dales? The barrels were stacked just right."

"And you were determined to prove that halla pelts were as soft as you told me," the archer decided it was time to change the pace of the game, "Remember the time we snuck into a linen closet in the Grand Cathedral?"

"I – wait, no. I don't recall that." Merrill's confused objection climaxed in a startled yelp as Sera dragged her through an almost invisible door in the wall.

Mansions, palaces and cathedrals were all alike. Hundreds of tiny rooms like this: cupboards, tool rooms, storage, cleaning supplies. The only people who could ever find them were servants and rogues. The scent of bleached cloth and stale sunlight flooded both women's noses as archer pressed mage against the shelving. _Linen closet. Called it, didn't I?_ Sera congratulated herself right before Merrill's mouth erased her smile. The room was pitch black and fumbling with buckles and belts only added laughter to the breathy sounds already echoing off the narrow walls. The first sharp brush of nails under the unfastened clasps of her leather chest guard warned Sera that she was falling behind and she redoubled her efforts on invisible fastenings. All the skills of a rogue's deft fingers and still she struggled, unable to concentrate on her hands when Merrill did that thing with her tongue. Flaming ass, she was a quick learner.

She sighed in relief when she finally felt the fasteners give way beneath her fingers, peeling chainmail and leather away to touch skin. She jerked back as if stung, breaking away from Merrill's mouth so suddenly that teeth scraped her lip and she tasted blood.

"Are you cold?" The archer's question was urgent with worry.

"Is this another game where I'm supposed to lie?" Merrill enjoyed those games, once she got good at them.

"No, seriously – are you at all chilly?" Sera shook her head, she knew the mage couldn't see the gesture but would hear it in her tone. Neither of them had released hold of each other but the longer the blonde's hands touched flesh, the more convinced she became that there was a problem.

"No. I feel more like I'm about to start sparking fire spells," Merrill admitted, fingers practically humming with barely contained magic as they trailed skin.

"Maker's balls, don't!" Sera grabbed both hands and pinned them to the mage's sides, "We've got company."

The linen closet door burst open and the two elves spilled out, dancing out of the way just before a third body escaped behind them. Or, more accurately, collapsed out onto the hall rug. Sera kicked the corpse over with her boot.

"Oh dear. That's a cathedral guard." Merrill crouched, examining the white face and blood encrusted throat. The man was obviously hours gone and Sera knelt as well for a closer look. She ignored the partially stripped armor around his hip and refused to think at all about the fistful of dead man she'd been gripping. What grabbed her attention was a tear on his belt. Something had been ripped away. His weapon and pouch were still in place – what else would a guard be carrying?

"Flaming tits," Sera felt the jolt of realization hit her like one of Merrill's accidental lightning sparks, "He was one of the door guards."

She and the mage both rose to their feet, silently understanding the full impact of the facts. Someone had murdered a gate man. Someone who now had keys to the entire cathedral.

"I think," Merrill took in the entire situation with extra wide eyes, "This is worse than dust bunnies."


	32. Act VIII:ii Instinct

Lady de Vici moved stealthily down a southern corridor in the depths of the Grand Cathedral. Not because she sensed any particular danger but because decades of training always came to the fore and controlled her movements when her mind was far away. Between the events of the night before and the appointment she approached, her thoughts were dancing chaotically back and forth in time with no regard for the present moment.

Dragons. She actually did know quite a bit about dragons. They were awakened and brought back into the world in her homeland, a point of mingled regret and pride for all Antivans. Her mother had even written her letters about them when she was young. _Still a boy, actually._ A faint tremor of irony managed to escape on her breath. The former Lady de Vici had once seen a Great Dragon with her own eyes, a sight so magnificent that her usually erudite language escaped her completely and the words on the page struggled to capture the awesome, dangerous majesty that she'd glimpsed. 'The Queen of the Dragons,' that was how Ravenel's mother described the creature. Eyes like fiery torches in the night, immortal, magical, a goddess housed in flesh that moved swifter than the wind and silent as shadow.

The assassin felt a wholly involuntary shudder as she recalled the written words and descriptions, disconcertingly accurate in their echo of her own broken thoughts last night _. Svelte strength; perfectly sculpted lines and curves that fell and rose beneath the brush of fingers. Breath hot as flame and the scrape of nails and teeth a constant threat of being devoured until it became a promise._ Rolling her shoulders Ravenel tested the feel of silk gently dragging against the sensitive skin of her back. She was acutely aware that the number of scratches and marks would have the pirate and Champion both rejoicing, trading coins and ribald jests. The fact that they'd never get the satisfaction of that victory made the subtle stings all the more agreeable.

Kieran. She dragged her thoughts away from the memories that made her pulse start and stutter. The boy had the same soul-searing precision in his glance that the assassin was familiar with from his mother. In the scant seconds of their meeting she could feel his gaze peeling back the layers of her façade, slicing away nobility, breeding, poise, beauty, even her dangers. He saw whatever truth lay beneath all that. Ravenel knew that Morrigan could perform the same nearly magical trick, scything through her defenses. The witch always halted at the last second though, shying away from seeing the final confessions. Almost as if something she saw frightened her . . .

Kieran, dammit! Lady de Vici let a soft curse out beneath her breath, wondering when her thoughts had gotten so far beyond her usual control. He liked dragons and mysteries, adventures and magic. He had traveled Thedas with his mother, been educated by the finest tutors in the Court of Orlais and wore the insignia of a Grey Warden with no concern for its curse. He looked at the assassin without a trace of fear and in his wide, deep eyes she had thought she glimpsed an otherworldly knowledge, a sagacity that saw her most fundamental self and accepted it.

He also had an infectious laugh. Ravenel caught it now echoing down the hallway toward her and though she'd never heard the sound before she knew instantly that it was his. She could hear hints of Morrigan in it. Most of the time the witch's amusement was flavored with scorn and sarcasm. Once in a brief while, however, there were traces of this innocent happiness in some of her smiles; the occasional chuckle of genuine humor that she stifled long before it could crack her aura of perfect reserve. De Vici easily followed the sound to an open catechism room, full of empty desks and stacks of books. The sole occupants of the room stood near an open window, studying the comical movements of birds rustling in the tree outside.

"Note that one fluffing his feathers and bobbing? 'Tis a way of signaling interest. You see how he approaches and bows? Like the etiquette of some gallant but look closer; each time he bows forward his tail feathers spread. A pretense of chivalry that actually allows him to show off even more of his colors." Morrigan had an arm casually resting around Kieran's shoulders as her other hand carefully pointed to the details. Open books on a nearby desk had been completely forsaken in favor of a live lesson in nature.

"He looks like the Orlesians at their balls. All puffed up and making silly gestures." The boy laughed again, shaking his head at the seeming ridiculousness of it.

"They are quite similar," the witch agreed, pride warming her tone as she approved of the astute comparison, "Preening, flashy, territorial and loud. The females are much like the ladies of Court as well, far more interested in pageantry than real worth. They are impressed by large estates, bright colors and grandiose displays of arrogance. The mating games of both species are silly and vain."

"Not all birds are so shallow, my lady." Ravenel spoke up to announce her presence, approaching slowly and halting to lean against a desk halfway across the room. There was something sacred about the sight of mother and son together and she hesitated to trespass closer. Kieran spun and favored the assassin with a smile of greeting, right before a confused frown consumed his face

"They aren't?" He looked back to his mother, unaccustomed to the idea of anyone correcting his most fundamental source of knowledge.

Morrigan's eyes fell on de Vici, an easy tilt of acknowledgement promising that she'd been aware of the assassin's presence long before she stepped into the room. By footsteps in the corridor perhaps, or simply the honed instinct that kept every fighter alert to approaching dangers. Possibly - though Ravenel didn't allow herself to entertain the hope – possibly the witch was adept at catching traces of the Antivan out of thin air, just as she had grown sensitive to any lingering hint of the golden eyed apostate. The barest lift of an eyebrow gave de Vici permission to expound her argument; to draw closer as well.

"Pretty and ostentatious little birds like these flit from one mate to the next. If nothing is permanent then what need is there for anything beyond some bright garb and a loud voice?" The assassin waved dismissively at the rambunctious courtship activities, "But not all birds are so. Their dark feathered brethren are known for being loyal and therefore have far more exacting standards. Have you ever seen two ravens flying together?"

"Yes! There were a lot of ravens at Skyhold." Kieran grew excited at the mention of his former home. He could not have been there for even a year and yet his heart so obviously remained attached to that distant stronghold.

"Then you must have noticed the way they seemed to dance in the air? Each arc and dive performed in tandem, matching speeds and turns until you might suspect there were strings attached between them." De Vici knew her own fondness for the subject was warming the words as they shaped. She wouldn't yield to the impulse to watch Morrigan as she spoke, tempting though it was.

"They weren't just showing off?" The boy had inherited his mother's suspicious personality. He did not have her skepticism but he would never easily be fooled.

"It might look that way, just as two fighters sparring might seem a display of prowess. However, those acrobatic maneuvers are much more. That is how they learn each other's speeds, skills and strengths. They are getting to know one another, you see. It can be swift and easy or long and elaborate. In either case it is action that draws these birds to each other, not colors and calls like the rest." Ravenel finally allowed herself to turn attention away from her young audience, catching the apostate's eyes fixed intently on her as though she could dissect the very letters rolling off her tongue. De Vici forced away the hum of tightened nerves and firmly met the scrutiny, seeing amused comprehension playing behind Morrigan's aloof demeanor.

"That sounds clever for birds." Kieran was 90% convinced but still looked to his mother for final verification.

"Ravens are quite brilliant creatures," Morrigan conceded, her arch tone mildly appreciative of the lesson in ornithology. A lesson that the Antivan could tell she'd already known perfectly well and could probably explain in far more accurate detail. Yet she still seemed pleased to have heard it from Ravenel's lips.

There was a hint of Kieran's laughter in the glinting gold that studied her. _Eyes like fiery torches._ The witch's gaze didn't glow in the late morning sun but pierced like the glare of predators. At night though . . . In the dark of a closed room the aurous color devoured candlelight and offered it back in the liquid tones of molten flame. At night Morrigan's eyes turned to bottomless fire and skin caressed by her glance felt the burn for hours after.

"They certainly could not be accused of being fickle. Impulsive perhaps, but never without good reason." De Vici felt the air between them subtly shifting, everything that had gone unspoken the night before finding its way between their actual words.

"Mother can turn into a raven," Kieran volunteered, mercifully oblivious to the silent conversation taking place above his head. The assassin wanted to lean over and kiss the boy for his perfectly timed observation, except it would've required taking her eyes off Morrigan and that felt physically impossible at this point. No one had ever captured her attention as instantly and completely as the bewitching apostate but rather than growing inured to her charms she found herself ever more helplessly addicted.

"Then I imagine she will never be impressed with flashy colors and silly noises." Ravenel watched for any sign of hesitation in the witch's expression. There had been no talk of emotion or affection in the small hours of the morning, when the failed candles left only shadow to fall across sheets and limbs as tangled as thought.

"Indeed. 'Tis far more rewarding to know what lies beneath." The apostate's easy confidence was as unyielding as the calm in the corner of her smile. The regal note of her voice was laced with mischief and victory entwined. Spin and roll, arc and dive; spoken or wordless they had moved into an already familiar rhythm.

"I'm certain no one could ever know as much about them as you." Ravenel matched her tone to Morrigan's, taunting without mockery. This was uniquely theirs, a magnetic dance; balancing constantly on the blurred edge where intensity threatened to become intimacy.

"'Tis just as well. I am jealous of the mysteries I possess." It shouldn't be possible to purr and hiss at the same time but Morrigan's tongue worked around that final word with all the satisfaction and danger of both sounds. How could she bring shades of flesh and silk into daylight like that without ever dropping her unflappable poise?

"You two aren't talking about ravens anymore." Kieran's furrowed brow interrupted the exchange. The boy didn't look particularly perturbed by the odd dynamic or coded language but he turned his incisive gaze from one woman to the other, daring them to deny his observation.

"We are, little man, and then we aren't. But perhaps we should move onto more gratifying subjects? I believe our meal is ready in the garden." Morrigan slid away from being the detached, seductive predator and was once again simply a woman with her son. The transition was minute and seamless, like stripping off a piece of clothing to reveal the comfortable skin beneath. Still, in her eye there remained the feral gleam of a hawk surveying territory. If it weren't so blatant and uncouth, Ravenel could almost imagine the play of a wink hidden behind her gaze.

The assassin nodded for the two to lead the way, absently wondering how long she could continue so exhilarating and exhausting a game. The rules were undefined, the goal utterly unknown but there was an inescapable sense of victory ever poised just beyond reach. Whatever feelings or thoughts they attached to this mutual weakness were still forbidden in the domain of words. Ravenel had no experience with relationships. Morrigan had no interest in romance. There had to be something in between those adverse extremes, a word for the place they kept meeting.

The Antivan didn't consciously recognize the sense of danger until a dagger was already in her hand. She grabbed Kieran's shoulder and shoved him against the wall at the same moment that a scream from the hallway ahead careened towards them.

"Kieran, go." Morrigan unstrapped her staff, pulling magic from thin air that charged in her eyes until they flashed like summer storm clouds.

"Will he be safe?" Ravenel watched the boy race silently away down the corridor. Such perfect obedience had to have come from experience.

"The Warden and Inquisitor are both protective women. Their guards are never far away." The mage had a spell charged at the tip of her staff, too bright to look at directly. De Vici watched until several armored figures swept out of the shadows halfway down the hallway, intercepting Kieran and whisking him to safety.

With a nod of agreement the mage and assassin turned the corner, weapons at the ready. Three blood spattered soldiers were blocking the exit to the garden, one with his sword buried deep in a servant's chest. A spray of crimson added to the stains of his armor when he ripped the weapon free, kicking the corpse out of his way to face the unexpected intruders.

"Lunch will be delayed then?" Ravenel palmed a second dagger, watching for the first twitch of attack in any of the enemies.

"Tomorrow might be better. 'Twill take at least a day for them to clean this blood," Morrigan concurred, right before the flashing death in her eyes poured into the power of a spell and magic filled the corridor.

* * *

Varric had made a very lucrative living off almost dying. That exceptional skill had granted him not only a better life expectancy but also supplied endless fodder for adventure stories that he wove into gold and sold for coppers. Escaping the Carta, staying out of trouble with the Merchants' Guild, surviving the Deep Roads, a Qunari invasion, the Templar/mage crisis, a hole in the sky – just thinking about all of it made him feel older than his forty years. A hundred near misses, blades and magic so close that he could taste the other side of the Fade, had trained him to sense danger from miles or minutes away. In the charge of a magic spell, the tension before a battle erupts, anytime a woman said 'we need to talk;' Varric could always feel the warning, every hair on his body standing on end. And brother, that was a lot of hair.

The prickling sensation across his chest had the dwarf's eyes sweeping the area just in time to see the doors of the throne room swing silently open. Morrigan, Merrill, Sera and Lady de Vici all marched in, scouring the room for signs of trouble as though they expected the blood bath to have already begun. By the look of the red splatter across de Vici and Morrigan's clothing in some places it had. Mages - and those who'd spent a great deal of time in their company - developed a heightened sense for spells and their lingering aftereffects. Varric tasted magic, more a sensation that set his teeth on edge than an actual flavor on the tongue. One by one he saw his allies notice the same disturbed air. Like dominoes falling in a row the trained fighters all began to tense and pass along the message of impending trouble.

Hawke straightened up, nudging Isabela and glancing to Aveline. The guard captain inclined her chin very slightly in a nod of agreement. The Inquisitor and Seeker both twitched, heads instinctively wanting to turn and look around but realizing they would only attract attention if they did. The Warden stiffened, hands clenching as if she might conjure a weapon and Varric could see Leliana's eyes falling directly to the Hero, blocking out any other distraction as they held silent counsel.

The Inquisitor's eyes moved to different allies in the room, a tilted eyebrow or darted glanced giving silent commands. Her gaze gestured Varric forward, urging him closer to the dais and the exposed Divine. He saw others doing their best to move undetected in the same direction, Leliana's spies and agents melting out of the walls to form protective flanks. For the first time, Varric cursed the strategy that left the majority of their armed allies either on rooftops or out in the courtyard crowd. In the tight space of the Divine's throne room they could easily be trapped and outnumbered. Raking his eyes over the special 'guests' and their companions amounted to only a dozen experienced fighters. That was including the Most Holy, assuming she was armed.

 _Who am I kidding? It's Nightingale, of course she's armed._ The dwarf could feel his fingers twitching to grip Bianca, the crossbow's own strings humming like a siren's call.

A wave of movement began to ripple through the audience. Like figurines dancing in a music box, the heroes and their friends all began to quietly rise and move as inconspicuously as possible to the rear. Varric watched the bored expressions of nobles barely registering this fluctuation in their environment as a defensive wall gradually formed at the entry doors. The room was now divided into two groups of people: the trained fighters who sensed the shift of air that presaged an attack and everyone who was only struggling to stay awake through the dulcet verses of the Chant. Dragging his eyes through the crowd Varric began to notice other allies rising to the occasion. Briala was already whispering to her Empress and signaling Ser Michel. The King and Queen of Ferelden were exchanging looks without their usual tired hostility. Even Mother Giselle was gesturing to the sisters in the room, quietly urging them to move to safer positions.

The rest of the audience was just beginning to tune into the change of dynamic in the room around them when the massive double doors burst open. The oiled hinges were silent as ever but the wood screamed as it exploded from force, noise and shards blanketing the chamber and spreading panic in its wake. The thunder of armor and boots filled every ringing ear and Varric could see an endless stream of soldiers surging up the grand corridor. Through the rattling echoes he also heard the metal whispers of weapons unsheathed, each one a sigh of relief as Divine Victoria's band of allies were finally free to do what they'd always done best.

"Ten apiece to start?" Hawke twirled her daggers in both hands.

"Don't get greedy, sweets," Isabela chided, the rich tones of laughter flitting through her honeyed voice.

"Do we take prisoners?" The Seeker dropped into defensive stance, readying for the first wave of attackers.

"Sure. In pieces." Inquisitor Trevelyan's greatsword spun in her grip, catching rays of sun and fracturing them across the room in blinding flashes.

If the attacking army of dissidents was at all shocked by the wall of fighters greeting their charge they didn't surrender to common sense and hesitate. They plunged straight into the waiting blades with the fanaticism of true believers, a deluge of zealotry pouring over the defensive line and spilling angrily into the room. Bianca's trigger sang beneath Varric's finger and harmonized with battle cries and laughter.

Chaos was rising up and threatening to shatter the world to pieces. This was one war they knew how to fight.

* * *

It would be known as the Rise of Sectarians. In the aftermath of the bloody battle that punctuated Divine Victoria's enthronement ceremony the stories and reports spread like disease across every kingdom of the Chantry. Each empire, nation and people had their own version of events; details exciting, rewarding or titillating only to them.

In the alienages of the Empire it was a point of pride that Marquise Briala and the half-bred Ser Michel each had a weapon ready to stave off any blade that neared the Empress. The Dalish, meanwhile, took pleasure in knowing how bravely their kin performed in that harrowing battle. It was two elves, a mage and archer, who were the first to provide protection for the innocents in the room, barriers and arrows widening the gulf between violence and victims. Even the unknown elf that had so mysteriously appeared alongside the Champion armed herself and moved to defend the Most Holy.

Fereldans boasted of their royalty, the only nobles in the room who joined the fight without hesitation and waded into the bloody melee arguing as often with each other as cursing their enemies. That was the tenacity of dog lovers. They were well represented in the glory of that day, as the natives all took pains to point out to any foreigner; the king and queen, the Warden Commander, the redheaded guard captain, a witch of the Korcari Wilds and the refugee Hawke from Lothering. By far, the majority of heroism in that room was supplied by the backwater kingdom that was so scorned by the rest of the world.

The Free Marches, of course, took issue with this. Hawke was Champion of _Kirkwall_ , a noble of their blood, a hero who had achieved her full potential only on Free soil and was therefore more Marcher than Fereldan. The same could be said of Guard Captain Vallen and for months after the attack blood continued to be shed in taverns across both countries as patriots fought over heroes.

One small pamphlet was published and offered for the price of three coppers, outlining the bravery of the Inquisitor. It also augmented the story with a fair amount of ripped clothing, last minute daring rescues and dying confessions of fiery affection. For once, Varric was just as disgusted as the Seeker when he saw it.

Another widely circulated telling of the events was in the form of the _Dowager's Gazette:_

_'Death to elves and mages!' The battle cry of the attacking rebels terrified many and offended the rest. The Empress herself bristled at the threat and rose to her feet. Encumbered as she was in a magnificent gown of ivory taffeta trimmed in pearls she cut a striking figure, towering above the other cowering nobles like the Lioness of family Valmont that she was, fierce as the crest on her royal bosom._

_'I think not.' Her Radiance's fine hand was deceptively delicate, catching the wrist of a soldier whose sword aimed for the Marquise of the Dales. As coy and underestimated as the Empress herself was the innocent seeming ruby ring nestled on her royal finger, yet it struck with the speed of a serpent's bite and magic devoured the attacker's gauntlet. Partially engulfed in flame the terrified man was finished with a scorching backslap, burning blisters rising across his cheek as he collapsed to the ground in a wreath of smoke. Our ruler did not even strain one stray hair from her ornamental braid in so easily dispatching the man._

_With the magic of the ring extinguished, the Empress' hand was safe for Marquise Briala to gratefully take and brush with a light kiss; the reverence of a subject married to the affection of a friend. Those standing closest to the two swore that beneath her mask the green eyed elf's adoration was such that she'd have pressed her lips even to skin consumed by fire._

Salons across Orlais were full of noblewomen tittering with salacious delight over the tale, gossip spreading as fast as the pages could be shared. Orlesian ladies had never been timid or ashamed of their many affairs and in the wake of this particular issue it became common practice for each woman to have at least one elven lover.

Mother Giselle compiled her own report of the events which she sent out as a letter to the Chantries across Thedas. Her desire was to 'strengthen the faithful, condemn the unrighteous and silence doubt.' Inquisitor Trevelyan made it as far as the passage describing Leliana's appearance during the battle: _Divine Victoria, tranquil in her certainty of Andraste's own blessing, remained unmoved by the attack. Her faith in the Maker's protection would not yield to fear of mortal threat._

At that point the Inquisitor fell into such a fit of laughter that she had to wake up Cassandra just to share it. The Most Holy might've been radiating calm confidence and absolute refusal to be intimidated but anyone familiar with the former spymaster knew that came not from spiritual armor but the very physical arsenal of weaponry beneath her robes. Eve herself had seen the Divine flick her wrist at least three times, sending poisoned darts with deadly precision into the throats and eyes of attackers that dared get too close.

The consensus of all who'd witnessed the battle was that the most accurate report was that compiled by Brother Genitivi. The famed Chantry academic – long rumored either retired or gruesomely dead – had emerged to attend the enthronement ceremonies. It was his scholarly eye that offered the most detailed and objective account of that day.

_I admit that at the time of this chaotic conflict I did not know the names of many of our allies, nor the number of attackers, nor even the precise nature of the weapons and skills being used in the pandemonium of battle. Since then, however, I have conducted interviews with many of the more notable figures who performed so courageously that day. Through them I have acquired the relevant details necessary to present a comprehensive report._

_The force of dissidents was some two hundred strong; a gathering of every rebel, traitor, disillusioned pilgrim and abandoned soldier. Never have I seen a more disparate crowd joined together in common goal but in every eye and voice was the howl for blood. The Inquisitor and Champion rallied their companions into defense, joined by allies from nobility to servant. No army's ranks have ever moved so easily and wordlessly into perfect formation, every fighter stepping into position as if they had practiced for this battle for years on end._

_The warriors were at the front, from humble guard to grand king. Their shields and blades formed a daunting wall that blocked, cut down and trampled the first wave of attack. The rebels continued to surge, climbing over the backs of their fallen brethren to swarm the first line of defense and spill over into the waiting blades and arrows of the rogues behind. Magic made every hair stand on end and filled our noses with fire and blood, volleys of spells unleashing from every corner of the room._

_We did not – could not – know that the dissident army had Templars in their ranks. Not until the first startled cry of warning erupted from the Hero of Ferelden. She'd not moved an inch from her position before the Divine but the force of a Templar's powers ripped the Fade from her fingers and she staggered when an arrow caught her shoulder. Divine Victoria - whom I remember in vague shades of fiery red blazing above the ice fields of Haven – dragged the fallen Hero to the ground, forsaking all pretense of stalwart calm. Those closest to her swear they heard a string of oaths worthy of any soldier or sailor tumbling from her lips as she fought with the mage to hold her down._

_The second mage to fall was the Champion's elven friend. In the middle of casting a spell her magic was broken and the disrupted power recoiled back on her, cannoning the petite body into nearby allies and bringing all into a complicated collapse. The Inquisitor and Seeker turned their attention strictly to the Templars, guarded behind a dozen lines of inexperienced zealots and rabid soldiers, doubly impelled to carve through these defenses before any other mages were hurt._

_"Damnation!" Lady Morrigan, the Arcane Advisor to Empress Celene - also a woman I recall from blurred nightmares of the Temple of Sacred Ashes (she visits me some nights in the form of a massive spider, venom dripping from her fangs) – was the third to lose her powers but even without magic she was far from harmless. A staff is a heavy weapon and given a sharp blade for good reason. The apostate, stripped of spells, did not hesitate to push into the thick of battle and make her enemies pay in blood and flesh for daring to cripple her abilities._

_"Get the bloody Templars!" The Champion spun between two swords aimed for her heart, easily slashing back to fell an enemy on either dagger. She had the Raider Isabela at her back, each taking turns launching stealthy attacks into the circle of their enemies, vanishing into smoke and reappearing in a hail of blades and blood._

_"We're trying, Hawke!" Guard Captain Aveline was on the front line, sandwiched between the Inquisitor and King Alistair but unable to gain ground through the walls of human shield protecting the lyrium addicted knights. The army was reduced by half, choked at the doorway and unable to push in further without being cut down by the waiting defenders. It was a deadlock, literally two sides held at bay by the sheer number of corpses falling between them and still they struggled at one another like alley dogs lunging for blood._

_"It is the traitor Divine we want!" This battle cry was not hundreds of voices but only one. Unlike the threat that had arrived with the army at the double doors, this announcement chilled every ear because it came from behind us all. Grand Cleric Victoire of Morelle. An outspoken enemy of the Inquisition and the single most determined opponent of Divine Victoria's appointment._

_"Surrender, Leliana." She had a small dagger at the ready, aimed not for the Most Holy but the woman still in her arms. The Hero struggled, desperate to get to her feet but Her Perfection would not allow it. The only flaw in the peace of her sapphire gaze was anger glinting like the edge of blades._

_"Try again, prissy pants." An arrow brushed the back of Victoire's neck, held in the stock of the most bizarre crossbow ever seen outside the whimsically experimental drawings of Paragon Davri._

_"Cuddles, tell me you haven't got any explosives on that shit." Varric Tethras also had his weapon pointed at the traitorous grand cleric._

_The sounds of clashing battle on the far side of the room were beginning to move closer. Worry over the Divine had divided the attention of our defenders and they were now retreating, deliberately losing ground to gain approach to this perilous catalyst._

_"Nah, but it is a grapple shaft. Could get messy." Elani wound the spring on her stock even tighter, the string all but trembling under contained force._

_"One move and the Hero of Ferelden dies," Victoire warned, a strong attempt at righteous bravado undermined by the tremble of her voice._

_"Don't know her," the elf shrugged, "But that one still owes me half my pay. And promised to get the bloody ox-men off my back. She seems a right bitch but she's smart and a damned sight better to look at than your wrinkled arse."_

_"These are your allies, Leliana? This is what you would invite into the Chantry?"The Grand Cleric would have shaken her head in disappointment but the sharpness of the arrow resting beneath her skull paralyzed any movement._

_"Compared to what you brought in today? Your sense is as lost as this battle, Victoire." Leliana took all the judgment and scorn from her enemy's eyes and turned it back on her a dozen fold. She spoke without betraying any anger, her tone the perfectly controlled cadences that one comes to recognize from listening to the Game being played a thousand times over again. She was the winter wind, a quiet cold that promises imminent death._

_"Seeker! They're charging spells – do something!" Morrigan felt the same buzz in the back of her teeth as every other fighter in the room that knew magic and the anti-magic of Templars. It set nerves on edge, electrified tired muscles and fueled attacks with a surge of adrenaline. The famed apostate's next blow stabbed clean through an oncoming soldier and then kicked him across the room._

_What had been a force of two hundred couldn't be more than several score now and the innocents and bystanders had all taken refuge beneath pews and behind pillars. The open room was a tableau of the closing moves in an intense chess match; pawns thrown to the wayside, queen in peril, offense and defense spread thin across multiple sites of attack, a bishop threatening checkmate and knights of both sides readying their final assault._

_The first blinding flash of light was unlike anything I had witnessed. When two dozen Templars, enraged by betrayal and terrified by abandonment, join their forces together the Wrath of Heaven is no longer anything to be described by mortal means. Every eye in the room wept from the pain of it, the paralysis reaching out with blazing fingers and forcing even our hearts to halt for as long as they were held in such a grip. The mages were already weakened and removed from battle but now even our heroes, our leaders and warriors were blinded and staggered by the sheer force of summoned reality filling the room like unapproachable heat._

_"Not in the Maker's House!" Lady Pentaghast's rage met the pillar of light, bursting it to pieces and freeing her allies but also bringing the full wrath of the enemy to focus solely on her. Templars have never been fond of the Seekers, a resentment festering between the watched and the watchers. Now they had opportunity to give vent to all that anger on a single target._

_"Cassandra, fall back." Inquisitor Trevelyan sensed the shifting mood._

_"What's going on?" The only mage unaffected by the Templar attacks was trying to push forward into the front lines, held back by the sensible hands of Hawke and Aveline. She couldn't truly be a mage despite what her robes declared, she was not still reeling from the effects of the Templar spell the way the others were._

_To one side of the room Lady Morrigan cursed and fought to change into a more deadly form, flashes of fang and claw blurring around the edges of her being but vanishing before anything solid could take shape. In the middle of the empty space between the two stalemates Sera, the Fereldan elf, was trying to pull Merrill out of pained paralysis. On the dais the Hero was sheet white, sweat broken across her brow as she strained to gather any shreds of power she could reach from beyond the Veil but the pouring blood of her shoulder weakened and broke her concentration, even as the blade pointed at her throat and the Divine's cradling arms destroyed her focus._

_"Get back, Solace." Lady Pentaghast echoed the Inquisitor's advice, backing away from the band of Templars while her blade and shield stayed ready to take the first hint of attack from any of them._

_"Get the Seeker." The gravel voiced command rose from somewhere in the ranks of the Templars. The broken order had nothing left to live for and suicide in the name of revenge was as valid a cause as any other that had cost their lives over centuries of service to the Chantry. All at once they surged forward._

_"No," Solace's shocked protest was too quiet to hear, then grew louder as fear gave way to anger, "No! NO. NO!"_

_The rage in her eyes turned into an incandescent light. Wrath and terror coiled and fought in the tendrils of magic that exploded from her being and wrapped around every armored attacker. The Templars screamed, livid lines of white and red racing across their faces, the outline of veins pulsing with agony as they dropped howling to their knees, metal fingers ripping open rivulets of blood as they tried to claw away the pain._

_The Order so shattered let the Fade rush back into the reach of every mage and the Hero's hand flew up, blasting Grand Cleric Victoire off the dais. Merrill and Morrigan similarly recovered their powers, enthusiastically wreaking revenge for their moments of weakness. The tide of the battle turned completely, the Inquisitor, Champion and Hero wiping out the last of the rebels and dissidents who were lost without a leader, defenseless without Templars._

_"Enough!" Divine Victoria was on her feet now, staring out across the bloodied floors and whimpering enemies broken across the room. She turned her full attention to Solace, the blonde mage still wrapped in transcendental light, trapped in her own power._

_"Cassandra." With a single tilt of her head Leliana commanded Lady Pentaghast to do what was necessary. The Nevarran noble hurried to the mage's side and grabbed her wrists, shaking her from the consuming power of her own spell._

_"Solace, it is done. Let them go. Solace! Let them go!" The Seeker's urgent command was answered by a final flash of light exploding from the blonde, eating along the wisps of magic to each and every Templar like the inevitability of a lit fuse._

_"I'm sorry! I didn't mean to." Solace burst into tears, dropping to her knees and born gently to the ground by the Seeker's arms. The final sparks of her magic hit their mark and the Templars screamed, flame bursting out of their skin to devour them whole. It was like watching the Maker's own holy fire consume the wicked: charred flesh turning to coal, turning to ash, disintegrating to nothing but black marks on the floor and soot carried away on the breeze._

_In the stillness that followed those final agonized cries there was not a sound worth uttering, the ringing howls of pain still echoing in every ear. I have not seen such spells before but I do know of their origin. They are widely reported and praised within the tomes of the Chantry because they are altogether holy. There is no doubting the power that decimated the rebel Templars and turned the tide of this dissident battle. It is well documented as one of the gifts of the Seekers of Truth. Yet the only Seeker in the room was currently staring in bewildered worry at the mage sobbing against her shoulder, turning only to the Inquisitor with eyes full of questions._

It would be the most famously memorable day in all of Varric's recollection. Leliana asked Alistair to escort the nobles away to safety. She also had Sparrow – who was never far from her former spymaster – take the survivors to the cells below. Every dissident, rebel and insurgent who'd thought to support Grand Cleric Victoire's uprising would suffer the hospitality of Divine Victoria to the fullest.

What was truly remarkable, however, was the look of contained alarm on Nightingale's face as she surveyed her allies. Her authority and poise were as perfect as ever when she commanded Hawke and the Inquisitor to bring all their companions to a private conference but every one of them could see a new emotion eating into the Most Holy's eyes. The new Divine - mistress of the Game, master of spies and keeper of secrets - was shocked. Something had happened that even she didn't expect. None of them doubted, as they saw the way the redhead's gaze bore into the mage huddled against Cassandra, that Solace had taken them all completely by surprise.


	33. Act VIII: iii The Mage

The Inquisitor could still vividly recall the anger and noise that gripped her allies after Corypheus' attack on Haven. Arguments and recriminations were flung about like weapons, no one concerned with accuracy but only the prospect of making someone else suffer. It was one of the rare occasions when she saw all her advisors' tempers at once and she hated it because it was loud and her head was already pounding and if all of them were being stupid and angry that meant _she_ had to be the reasonable one. That was never good.

Shades of all that frustration and flailing confusion were now filling up the private conference chamber, frayed nerves and battered logic all looking for someone to blame. Trevelyan watched the arguments rapidly unfolding, each as varied in tone and volume as the participants. Truly, the only thing they all had in common – companions of the Hero, Champion and Inquisitor alike – was that they couldn't keep their mouths shut. Thank the Maker she didn't have a headache this time.

"You found the dead gate man in a linen cupboard and didn't think to tell anyone?" The guard captain might have been reprimanding an entire garrison under her command.

"We did – we came to tell the big nobs. Inky and the Champion and the rest of you lot." Sera held her ground. She'd nosed off against nobles and wealthy wankers for years, not to mention the dumb thugs that prowled Denerim's back alleys and thought having a huge arse meant they could bully anyone they wanted. She wasn't going to be cowed by a ginger haired tower of armor and threat looming over her like Andraste's own revenge. A bit turned on, perhaps, but not intimidated.

"You were supposed to find the Iron Bull or Cullen! You needed to secure the perimeter!" Aveline's voice could turn into the same metallic tones of a gauntleted fist striking a wall, pure anger and unstoppable force.

"The perimeter was already bollocksed, right? They got the keys and shit hours ago. You want to go ranting at someone for falling ass over tits on the job then find the dumb sods that had early morning rounds! They're the ones what missed this poor blighter getting his throat slashed." The blonde didn't have the gift of controlled temper, or dismissive humor or even witty retorts. Sera was a powder keg, always ready to explode the second someone set the fuse and she wouldn't worry about being clever or accurate when she went off. Trevelyan had been on the receiving end of her temper tantrums enough times to know that.

"Don't try passing the blame. If you'd gotten out of bed when you both were supposed to rather than forcing us to shake you out like stubborn children then there wouldn't have been a two hour gap between patrols. You were being juvenile and selfish." Aveline had the better hand to play in this argument. That never guaranteed winning against as illogical an opponent as Sera, but it made for a better fight.

"Hold off, Big Girl," Isabela had never in her life passed up a chance to argue with the guard captain, "If these two weren't after playing a bit of slap and tickle in the first place then that linen cupboard wouldn't have been opened for ages. This place already smells like death with all the decaying hags running round."

When the pirate and guardswoman fell into a familiar pattern of verbal battle Trevelyan turned her focus away. Nothing new was happening in that conversation anymore. Instead she found her attention drifting towards the more subdued but intense drama unfolding on the far side of the room. Divine Victoria was every bit as irritated as the rest of her allies but for different reason. She'd flung her headdress and heavier vestments aside the moment she stepped into the room, dragging the Hero over to Morrigan for treatment.

"I thought we had agreed about this!" The redhead's typically melodic and gentle voice now held a rough edge, emotion chafing beneath the controlled words.

"I didn't take off to do anything heroic alone this time. Aren't you proud of me?" Solona laughed but the sound was cut abruptly short by a curse as Morrigan began tearing fabric away from the wound.

"You could have dodged that shot. We both know that, no? You put yourself directly in harm's way. Again. You promised to be more careful." Leliana cradled the Warden's head in her lap, fingers soothing away the pained winces that accompanied every jostle of the embedded arrow in her flesh.

"You were a sitting duck. What was I supposed to do?" The Hero's discomfort, both physical and emotional, was wearing through her tone now.

"You were supposed to be sensible for once and trust others to do their job. Not stand there like a fool and nearly get killed!" The scolding was sharp but not unkind, anger warring with tenderness as both emotions tried to fill up the void left over from fear.

"She's right," Morrigan joined in on the side of the Divine, a truly unusual moment of alliance uniting them, "This could have been much worse. A few inches over and the blood loss would have been serious indeed. 'Tis uncertain what effect severe injury might have on disrupting the spells and potions you consume. Our work could have been utterly undone."

Trevelyan had never seen the dynamic of the three women together, the way they chastised and sympathized like a family. Rebuke might be wound into all their arguments but it was never without the gentler warmth of familiarity. Affection forged through shared experience was still binding them unspoken into the same roles they'd carried a decade before.

"It's an arrow, Morrigan. Not even laced with poison or darkspawn taint. You've fixed me up from worse." Solona would have shrugged if not for the four hands holding her so firmly immobilized. The witch let a flash of irritation turn her lips into a scowl, matching Leliana's expression as she grabbed the arrow shaft.

"'Tis different now," without warning the apostate ripped the arrow free, immediately pressing a healing spell and poultice into the gushing wound, "You are not a child anymore, Warden. There is no Blight. You cannot continue acting as if your death would not matter."

"That's kind of what being a Grey Warden is all about." The Hero had to argue through clenched teeth. She had buried her face in the Divine's robes to muffle her cry, turning back only when all that remained was a crimson flush of stifled pain.

"Which is why we are trying to free you of the taint; remember, my love?" Leliana's cool hand brushed sweaty hair off the mage's forehead.

"You know, there was a time you thought it was sweet that I stood between you and danger," Solona pointed out, a weak smile teasing back onto her lips. Nothing serious stayed her laughter for long.

"That was before I knew how stupid you could be. Or how much I had to lose." The Divine shook her head, doing her best to resist the Warden's charms but already softness was beginning to turn her lips into a gentler line.

"Unlearning heroism takes some time, Leliana. I'm working on it, I – Damnit! Maker's sodding bones, Morrigan! That hurts!" Solona's tender reassurance vanished into the loud oath, one fist taking an instinctive swing at the apostate who easily blocked the uncontrolled blow.

"Pain is the best teacher. Learn quickly, Warden." Morrigan's arched brow was challenging, as was the smirk hiding in the corner of her mouth.

The three heroes of the Fifth Blight weren't as loud or blasphemous as Isabela and Aveline's continuing argument – which had included references to whoring amongst sisters, lonely tits, ungreased hinges, disease laden tongues and five different parts of Andraste's anatomy – but neither set of arguments held as much potential for violence as that in the center of the room.

Cassandra and Varric were the real trouble waiting to happen. The two were bickering in controlled tones of mutual distaste as Solace sat numbly on the couch below. The Seeker and dwarf had developed only the most grudging of respect between them, a truce of necessity more than true accord. In Varric's eyes Cassandra was always the ball busting warrior that would've ripped his chest hair out by the roots if she could've brought herself to touch him. To the Seeker, Tethras would never be more than the lying storyteller that had deceived and manipulated her and everything she represented, forsaking loyalty to the Chantry in favor of his own agenda. (This was a completely false assumption but the last time Eve tried to argue with her about it Cassandra put a fist shaped dent in the desk and spent the night scrubbing her armor clean rather than coming to bed). She sought truth. So did he, in his own way. But where the warrior saw it in black and white detail, Varric was inclined to find it in the shadows of grey. Small wonder they so often found themselves on opposite sides of any issue.

"Do not talk of things you don't know, Varric!" The Nevarran's angered gesture of dismissal was dangerously close to becoming a blow.

"I know what I saw, Seeker. I know it because I've seen you do the same thing to Templars and mages. Ancestors' anthracite asses! It had to be the lyrium and you know what that means!" The dwarf shot back, his protest both urgent and stubborn.

"Only Seekers can set lyrium on fire, a gift that comes from years of discipline and the ritual of the Vigil." Cassandra's superiority bled out in the height of her tone, the fold of her arms, the way she straightened to her full stature to glare down at the shorter man.

"You mean the ritual that ends with you getting made Tranquil and then freed? Cause if I'm not mistaken that's the entire reason the kid is here!" Varric was confident in his own argument, always quick to put together details and arrive at answers faster than anyone else.

"The powers of the Seekers can only be granted by a spirit of Faith. It is a reward for purifying the mind completely and I can guarantee: that girl's mind has never been pure!" Cassandra managed to realize just how harsh those words sounded after she spoke. She sent Solace a brief glance of apology but would not recant the simple statement of fact. It hardly mattered; the mage was staring at the far wall and seeing nothing, still trembling from the alien power that had gripped her.

"The last time I saw a mage in the middle of this much chaos he'd blown up a chantry and sparked a rebellion." Hawke made her presence known beside the Inquisitor, also quietly watching the room's entertainments.

"Well, we've got the rebellion and the chaos. Nothing blown up yet but give Varric and Cassandra a bit of time, I'm sure they'll get around to it." Trevelyan could feel a smile inching across her lips, matching the Champion's expression.

"Should we start thumping heads?" Hawke's folded arms and relaxed stance confessed that she had no interest in trying to bring the room under control. Not yet anyway.

The Inquisitor's smile widened. The Champion had been a soft spoken, easy going ally when they first met. While she'd learned the rogue could be loud and angry at times, nothing had ever changed the underlying humor that permeated everything she said and did. The Hero smiled when she was in pain, the Champion joked in times of peril and Eve herself couldn't resist using laughter to scythe through any battle that wouldn't yield to a sword. It might've been a kiss of madness that gifted them all with this unique survival skill but when the universe coiled and turned against you the only options were rage or laughter. The Inquisitor was always comforted to know that she'd chosen the same path as the heroes before her. Bitter anger got so tedious at tea parties.

"They're all too stubborn for that. If we want their attention we'll have to swat asses." Trevelyan enjoyed the throaty laugh that answered her retort.

"Start that and half the room will drop their trousers." The Champion didn't have to clarify which half. Nor did she need to mention what the rest of the occupants would do. Images of an offended Seeker quickly blurred into glinting blades and bruises before Eve shook away the thought.

"I suppose there's been enough scandal in the Maker's house for one day." The Inquisitor released a mournful sigh, calculated to evoke an extra chuckle they could share.

"Looks like Sister Nightingale has a better idea anyway." Hawke's low chortle faded as they watched Leliana rise to her feet, aiding the Hero as she stood. The gentle concern in the Divine's eyes as she guided the healing woman's movements vanished into deliberate calculation when her gaze swept over the room.

"Hawke, go find your sister. Varric, please bring Dorian." The Most Holy's command rang with the authority of the Chantry itself. Trained to speak in seductive cadences and melodic songs, experienced in whispering secrets and threats; Leliana's voice quietly cut through all the blasphemies and insults, severing arguments mid-sentence.

"What are you planning, Leliana?" Cassandra turned to her former counterpart, asking the question that must've been common in their years together under Justinia.

"Five mages should be enough for a summoning circle to work." Divine Victoria's eyes fell to Solace just in time to see the blonde twitch when she heard the plan.

"You want to pierce the Veil here? In the seat of Chantry?" Aveline protested what sounded like sheer madness. Opening a door to the Fade was dangerous anywhere but to risk demons invading this holy place seemed unthinkable.

"But none of us are mediums," Merrill pointed out a more logical objection.

"You won't have to be. I believe what we seek is already lingering on the edges beyond our world. If I am correct, the moment the Veil parts we will be provided with answers." Leliana's gaze hadn't swerved from Solace. The blonde's eyes had been a tempest of confusion but suddenly the emotion drained out of her expression, locked away behind walls of resistance.

"Something's hanging about, you mean? Like a stalker on the other side?" Sera's customary scowl twisted her mouth even more violently than usual.

"You can't think this will work." The mage shook her head, speaking only to the Most Holy.

"I do. As do you, which is why you are worried, yes?" Leliana saw guilt slip through the blonde's eyes, "It is time we spoke to your old friend, Solace."

* * *

Warden Amell gazed around the assembled mages as they gathered into position. She was the only one actually trained in a Circle. The rest were as diverse a band of dangers as the Chantry could ever hope to frighten the faithful with. A Tevinter magister, a former maleficar, a witch of the wilds and an apostate warden. Together they were going to punch a hole in the Veil separating flesh and spirit. It had been done plenty of times by other mages, inside and outside the Circles. But never in the hallowed halls of the Grand Cathedral where reality had been reinforced for centuries by the powers of Templars and the faith of millions. Had magic _ever_ been performed inside this building? Well, other than the little she and Morrigan and Bethany had done of late.

"Any particular strategy for when we knock and the wrong spirit opens the door?" Dorian tapped his staff idly on the marble floor. It was usually demons that lurked closest to the edge of the Veil, eager to seize any opportunity to slip across and capture the minds and lives of mortals in all their fleshy weakness and pleasures.

"Duck." The Inquisitor had assembled all the other allies into a secondary ring around the mages.

The Hero was taken back to the minutes before her harrowing, a circle of mages casting their spell over her with armed Templars surrounding them all. Logically, she knew that these were all friends and not a one would lift weapon against her or the other mages but the familiarity made her skin crawl. How much worse to be Solace? The blonde was stuck in the center of the summoning circle, probably reliving her own rite of magical passage.

"It will not be the wrong spirit." Leliana's voice was steel, unbreakable in her conviction. It was the confidence that came from knowing and understanding secrets that the rest of them had missed. No matter how much Solona wanted to stop and ask questions, to know entirely what it was that let the spymaster give them these orders with such an easy calm, she knew the only reply would be the same as before: open the Veil and we'll all find out.

"Ready?" The Hero thumped her staff hard onto the ground, charging the focus before looking around the circle to the other mages.

"Oh, why not?" Dorian was the first to follow suit.

"Indeed." Morrigan might not share Leliana's knowledge but she had the same unruffled confidence.

"I suppose." Bethany was a little more hesitant.

"This is exciting!" Merrill cooed, the last staff to touch the ground. When all five foci were charged the magic burst out and met in the middle of the circle, directly over Solace's head.

The glowing lines coiled and swirled in the air, fighting the invisible. The Hero stared hard at the coalescing spells, her eyes watering from the brightness and beginning to blur before a final twist seemed to turn the room inside out and the magic vanished in a far more blinding flash. When she managed to squint her eyes open once more it was to see a surreal hole above them all, a tunnel into miasmic nothingness. The shapeless waste of the Fade was beyond.

Before them a shape drifted down, little more than a distorted glow. Like watching a cooling forge fire, details appeared as the being came closer; hands and head began to define themselves, feet at first hovering off the ground and then solidly planting on the floor. Spirits were shaped by the projections of the minds they touched. Everyone could see something different in the Fade. Was this being now trying to be everything that every person in the room wanted to see?

That was the only way to explain the constantly fluctuating shape. The wispy impression of a bridal dress would vanish beneath the lines of armor, a flower headdress becoming an iron helmet. Then both gave way to nothing, the sheerness of a woman completely stripped before pieces were drawn back over her skin again; here a wrapped bundle, there a shield, in one hand a sword in the other a quill, barefoot, booted, mired in chains. For countless seconds no one dared to say a word, watching as the summoned spirit struggled to settle on a precise shape and voice to offer the waiting world.

Eyes that no one could actually see swept the room, chilling and exhilarating as scrutiny passed each one of them. Solona saw only the visor of a helmet study her before moving on. The gaze stopped on the mage in the middle of the ring and all the confused images and flickering shapes came into sudden agreement. She - for the spirit chose to be such - pulled on the raiment of a Chantry sister, comforting in their simple familiarity.

 _"_ _Solace. You have not called to me for many years."_ The spirit's voice had layers to it, like her conflicted appearance. The gentle tones rose and fell atop a more chastising reproach, the sound of a surprised but patient parent.

"You -," Solace hesitated, swallowing her first words and whatever secrets she might have confessed, "You got me in too much trouble."

 _"_ _That was never my intent. What they did to you -,"_ spirits had no emotion, it was beyond their reach, but a flash like fire burst around her aura for a moment before dying away, _"I left you alone when you asked."_

"You were still watching though. I've seen you in the Fade since; you were even at my harrowing." There was no accusation in the mage's tone, merely acknowledgment of a fact.

" _I watched over you. As I promised I would. You are the last that hears me, the last I can reach. I could not leave you unguarded in this world or I would fail."_ When a hand reached towards Solace every fighter in the room instinctively leaned closer, weapons held at ready. The ghostly touch merely brushed the blonde's cheek, undoubtedly more an idea than an actual sensation.

"There were others?" It was Leliana who spoke now, interrupting the moment. A distraction that allowed Solace to pull away and recover herself from whatever emotions the reunion brought up.

 _"_ _Many. I saw them born, watched them grow and love, birth and die. Most could not hear me save in their dreams. I taught them as best I could, whispered in their sleep and sang the verses even when their ears had grown deaf. It has been centuries since a daughter listened and sang the words back."_ Happiness was impossible but there was no doubting the smile that suffused the spirit's face with extra light when she looked back to her ward.

"You taught Solace the Chant of Light." Cassandra accepted the claim more easily than the Hero might have expected. Seekers of Truth weren't known for getting on well with any of the denizens of the Fade. Her time with the Inquisition must have taught her lessons beyond the discipline of the Order.

 _"_ _From the moment she was born. Her first breath was her mother's last and both cried in the same tones of sadness that I knew from long before."_ The faint sound of a woman's voice weeping rose up around them, fading across the room like the dying breath she described.

"Were you there when they made her Tranquil?" The Inquisitor spoke up now, slotting clues and puzzle pieces into place.

 _"_ _Everything went so still I thought she had died. They tried to change her, to silence her,"_  there was another flash of redness around the spirit, _"I could not let them. I brushed away the stillness and the song was still there. Just as it was in her mother and mother's mother."_

"You said you promised to watch over Solace. Who did you promise?" Leliana approached now, stepping to the very edge of the magic circle to get a clearer view.

 _"_ _She wept near death as well,"_ the answer echoed with hollow memory, " _Her tears were bitter with sadness for everything except herself. Everyone was dead or lost, betrayed and failing. No one else could stand beside her but me."_

The Hero glanced across the Circle to Morrigan. The witch's eyes were filling with the same sharp light of troubled excitement. Doubt as strong as conviction.

"Could you feel the flames?" The Divine coaxed their mysterious visitor closer to the edge of truth, pulling at a thread of conclusion that she'd already accepted.

 _"_ _No. I was spirit, she flesh. I was held to her by the bond that transcends both."_ The being unconsciously told Leliana precisely what she'd needed to know. Death by fire.

"Who?" Cassandra could not completely disguise the hint of held breath that followed her question, demanding the straight answer that everyone suspected but needed to hear.

 _"_ _The one whose faith changed the world. I heard her when she saw the Maker's glory, listened when she sang,"_  a gesture of spread hands filled the room with blinding light, a melodic voice rising up through the air around them, beautiful in its sadness,

 _"_ _I marched beside the Prophet on her holy crusade,"_ the din of clashing metal and dying screams filled the room, the heavy scent of blood flooding Solona's nose,

 _"_ _I stood with the Lady of Sorrow in the flames of her pyre and heard her dying prayers. Spirit cannot touch flesh but I held her as she wept. I swore her faith would be remembered. She could go in peace to the Maker and I would preserve her legacy," e_ very person in the room shifted uncomfortably, heat creeping up feet and legs, pungent smoke choking away air,

 _"_ _I have watched across the Veil, reached out in dreams, shaped thought – to protect all her bravery created, all her devotion left for mankind. Of all she left behind in the world, only one remains who hears my voice,"_ the spirit reached one last time for Solace's hand. She was caught off guard when the mage wrapped both arms around the intangible form and for those brief seconds of contact she was as solid as every other person in the room, shaped entirely by the woman she'd apparently raised, _"I will always be here for you."_

"Must all spirits speak in obscurities?" Morrigan's demand wasn't so patient or wondered as any of the questions before.

The ancient being clearly intended to ignore the scathing query. She was focused only on stroking the blonde hair buried against her shoulder, humming a tune that Solona could only vaguely recognize. It had echoes of the Chant but it was like hearing your own language from a thousand years before: unrefined and foreign but ripe with the promise of familiarity. Then Solace released the spirit and she was ethereal once more.

 _"_ _Others have sensed the open Veil, I must go."_ The glowing circle robes began to shift and transform again, cycling through the many identities that echoed thousands of paintings and sculptures across Thedas. She was rising once more toward the Fade, confident that the summoners wouldn't try to stop her.

"For the sake of what brought you into this world," Leliana held up a hand, staying the spirit, "Tell us: what are you?"

Now there could be no denying the smile that spread across incandescent features. The many shifting garments and identities coalesced into a simple white dress, translucent hair billowing in an invisible breeze. She had almost vanished beyond the edge of the Veil before her answer reached their ears.

_"_ _I am Grace. I belong to Andraste alone."_

* * *

The Fade vanished and left only the arched ceilings of the Grand Cathedral staring down at every watching eye. Cassandra turned away as soon as the door through the Veil was closed, stepping through the circle of mages to reach Solace. Her grip on the blonde's shoulder encountered a moment of defensive tension before the mage recognized the familiar touch and relaxed. It no longer seemed unusual that the girl was so comfortable in the Seeker's company. Whatever power had lain dormant within her for the last two years had blossomed when the presence of similar faith and gifts drew near. She might have gone her entire life without ever meeting another Seeker and therefore never known the ability she'd been granted. Like calls to like. It was inescapable now that the blonde had risen above the life of a mage to a grander calling.

"Right, I'm not up on my Chantry doctrine of late," Elani broke the reverent silence that had descended on the room, "But did I understand that bit? Was she saying that in addition to the Maker, a human husband and a bit on the side with my granddaddy however-many-times-removed Pointy Ears, Andraste was _also_ having it off with a woman to boot?"

"There is nothing in verse or history about any women in her company other than Justinia and she outlived the Prophet." Cassandra immediately rejected the very idea. The elf had a way of making everything sound cheap. Whatever bond they'd all just witnessed, it was nothing to be whispered about like scandal.

"It could be that another woman in The Lady's life was in love with her. Perhaps one that died but chose to linger at the edge of our world in order to be close?" The Inquisitor recalled her encounter with the supposed Divine Justinia V in the Fade. To this day neither she nor Cassandra had fully decided what they witnessed. Was it Mother Dorothea still dwelling on the other side of the Veil to provide guidance? Was it a spirit that felt such kinship with the Divine that she echoed her after the woman passed to the next life? Was it simply a benevolent creature determined to help them, putting on the one guise guaranteed to earn their trust?

"There is no still no evidence that any essence of an individual endures or travels beyond death," Morrigan's clinical voice cut through any more fanciful thoughts, "All that is known is that beings in the Fade can and do put on the appearance of those we might wish to see. They can adopt the manner of people we have known, that does not equate to any lingering essence of such souls."

"You find it easier to believe that a spirit chose to bind itself to Andraste and was not only loyal to her death but to her bloodline beyond?" Varric wasn't particularly religious most of the time but he found life-after-death more comfortable to think about than relationships across the Fade.

"That is the problem with faith," the witch rolled her eyes, breaking away from the summoning circle to pace irritably, "It cannot override fact. What I believe does not matter. Experience tells us that what we just saw was a spirit of faith, not the ghostly remainder of a human being."

"Andraste was no mage. How could she have interacted with anything beyond the Veil?" Bethany followed Morrigan, inclined to agree with the apostate that had been mentoring her for the past months.

"Our Lady heard the Maker's own voice," Leliana easily reminded everyone that they weren't talking about any ordinary woman, "Who's to say she could speak to Him but not spirits as well?"

"Grace never said they talked," Hawke was the first willing to use her name, to honor the identity she'd chosen, "She only said that she listened to Andraste and made her own promises. It could be that they never bridged the Veil."

"That would be sad," Merrill's observation trickled from a mournful pout, eyes widening when so many questioning glances turned to her, "She felt so strongly attached to the woman! It would be unfair to think they never even got to speak."

"Life's not fair, kitten." Isabela squeezed the elf's arm sympathetically, her typically brash manner subdued.

"What about it, Morrigan?" The Hero was no stranger to spirits, demons or walking the Fade but still deferred to the self-appointed authority, "Can spirits fall in love?"

The apostate tilted her chin slightly, an indication that she'd already been pondering that very mystery. The Inquisitor and her companions all knew that the Arcane Advisor had no tolerance for romance or its trappings, love and its weaknesses; yet somehow there was the distinct impression she'd been contemplating the subject long before it arose. At its heart the question was fundamental to the universe: what is love?

"They could be drawn to those that embody their ideal." The witch carefully felt her way around the edges of an answer. Cassandra noted how the feral yellow eyes moved across the room, instinctively finding the watchful gaze of a particular assassin.

"Solas used to talk about that," the Inquisitor spoke up in agreement, invoking the name without her usual bitterness, "Wisdom to scholars, Valor to the brave, Duty to soldiers."

""Tis less emotion and more a matter of nature," Morrigan was growing more confident with the idea she was piecing together, "All the world spins on laws of attraction; we see it in the very movements of the heavens and the seas. Everything, everyone can feel the pull of invisible forces drawing them together."

"Like tides and constellations and whatnot? That's some profound gibberish to be unwinding to sort out whether there was a bit of cosmic hand-holding going on, Spooky." Sera's uncomplicated wit was often the quickest to scythe through bullshit.

"The fact that these events are mysterious doesn't change their import," the witch's sharp reply swelled with pride and irritation, biting back any further snide comment, "'Tis not unthinkable that spirits are subject to the same influences. Calling it 'love' is merely a mortal simplification."

Cassandra noted that the Divine showed no surprise in the answer. Neither did the Hero or Inquisitor. Searching through the ingrained lessons of her own Seeker training and Chantry upbringing not even she could find any reason to object to what seemed painfully obvious. A spirit of faith – for she could be nothing else - had bound herself to Andraste with unshakable loyalty. The devotion that stands beside another to death and beyond; it might be a 'mortal simplification' but there was no other word for it in all their world besides love.

"In love or not, a spirit chose to join Andraste and watch over her children after her death. It was this Grace that broke Solace from Tranquility, do we not agree?" Leliana looked over the assembled friends, seeing a chorus of nods both supportive and reluctant.

"The testimony of a spirit would be suspect at best. I doubt the Chantry would accept such facts." The Seeker felt a surge of angry disappointment as she admitted the reality. She had served the honored institution without doubt or hesitation for decades but she also knew the stubborn slowness of its movement, the refusal to accept new truths no matter how proven. At least the elf had a trail of papers leading directly to her name, all but written in the blood of those who had no reason to lie. Solace would be a test of faith for everyone involved.

"I believe a more extensive conference is necessary. Seeker, Inquisitor, if you'll join me?" The Divine moved to leave the room, waiting only to see her summoned allies follow.

Cassandra and Trevelyan exchanged glances as they obeyed, both hesitantly eager to see just what magic trick the redhead would use to twist all these surprising details to her advantage. Behind them the Seeker caught the strains of quiet conversation fading at her heels.

"So I guess this make us some kind of weird cousins or shit like that?" Elani was the only one comfortable enough to approach the spent mage.

"I guess so. I don't really know what that means. I've never had family before." Solace was still numb from the surprises that had buffeted her worse than storm winds but there was an effort in her breath like laughter trying to rise.

"Yeah, but I do. It means I feel damn awkward for trying to get in your knickers the other night." The elf's rueful sarcasm brought out the full-throated release of Solace's pleasure, a rolling sound of relief that filled the room and brought every eye back to the spectacle of Andraste's daughters in the center of the floor.

"Don't worry, cousin," the mage gasped through her laughter as though her very ribs ached with each breath, "I have far more wicked ideas for us to discuss."

"Maker preserve us." Cassandra muttered beneath her breath, shaking her head as the closing door severed her from the mischief beyond.


	34. Act VIII:iv Aftershocks

"I don't think they're coming back any time soon," Varric commented as quiet descended after the Divine's departure. The room they were in was still tingling with echoes of the ruptured Veil and in unspoken accord every ally in the room moved to escape the lingering reach of the Fade.

"I assume you'll be writing about this, dwarf?" Morrigan's demand was a challenge but idle and bored, not particularly invested in the answer. She was more focused on watching Warden Amell, making certain the healing held.

"I dunno, Spike," Varric looked around as they emerged into the throne room of the Divine, "I'm not about to give Nightingale any extra reasons to skin me with a rusty blade."

"Don't be so crude, my pint-sized perfection. Songbird wouldn't dirty her hands with anything that vile. Only the finest dagger in Orlais will do when she decides it's time to take your magnificent hide." Isabela's honeyed reassurance slid over his ears as her fingers teased down his throat, a sharp edge echoing the laughing threat.

"Thanks, Rivaini. Now I'm all hot and bothered. Mostly bothered." A sarcastic roll of the dwarf's eyes was still a trifle indulgent, ever entertained by the pirate's games.

The throne room reeked of charred skin and spilled blood, the servants and guards still busy clearing away bodies and stains. It hadn't seemed like this many attackers when they were in the thick of the fight. Kill two dissidents, four more appear, no one has time to be doing math. Now, confronted with the sheer number of corpses, the mixed band of companions began to understand exactly what they had managed to defeat. And how narrowly.

"Shit, you ripped this one to shreds, honey tongue." Sera crouched beside a strewn pile of armor that used to be attached at the joints. Theoretically the limbs within had been too.

"The Warden taught me a few new spells when we were at Skyhold. Strictly for self-defense and no blood magic," Merrill hurried to downplay the terrifying reality of her skills, "It doesn't work unless there's enough time to build the charge. I can't do it by accident when I'm surprised or excited. It's not like sparks or fire so I don't think it will happen when we're alone. But then, we're alone for awfully long periods of time. Oh, dear."

"It's alright, Merrill. Those spells take too much concentration. I doubt you have the discipline during 'alone' time." The Hero comforted the distressed elf with only a bare minimum of laughter. It was hard to say who was more relieved, Merrill or Sera.

"There you go, Kitten. If you do rip her arms off it's because she wasn't doing a good enough job keeping your mind blown to bits. Should keep her motivated." The Queen of the Eastern Seas was in her customary post-battle high spirits. All that was missing was a bottle in one hand and Hawke's ass in the other. The languid swagger of her hips promised she was minutes away from both.

"Sodding balls, this one here is scary. Lookit, throat all ripped out. Not clean cut or stabbed or nothing, just like someone grabbed and yanked." Elani crouched beside a corpse that seemed more appropriate in the middle of a forest beset by wolves.

"That's Morrigan's work. You can always tell by the nail marks." The Warden gave the body the barest cursory glance, a casual dismissal that came from having seen the same wound pattern hundreds of times. It was a sort of animal thing.

"Damn. This was you, Witch?" The elf looked up and found eyes like a lazy lioness watching her every move, a gaze that chilled the blood.

"Without magic one must resort to more direct methods." The apostate shrugged, unperturbed by the recognition of her handiwork. Anyone that felt she was too dangerous with her magic had never seen her without it. Elani rose to her feet, shaking her head in awe that anyone could do that much damage barehanded. Then again, she _was_ the dragon lady.

"Hey, Killer?" The blonde caught Lady de Vici's attention, a crooked smirk tugging at her lips, "Your girlfriend is a badass."

"I'm certain Lady Morrigan is whatever she chooses to be." Ravenel carefully delivered a neutral response, the shape of her lips nothing more than her usual detached amusement. It was an artful deflection, ignoring the bait and denying any possible clues for gossip.

"And you are simply psychotic, thief," Morrigan responded in her own defense, nodding to where a rebel had been pinned into the wall with what looked like a small harpoon through his genitals. A painful way to bleed out. Fortunately, a second arrow (of the more ordinary type) had granted him a swift release. With that subject settled, the easily distracted crowd moved on. Only the witch of the wilds would note the softening of Lady de Vici's perfect mouth, just as only the assassin saw the incline of Morrigan's brow; a subtle exchange of mutual appreciation offered and accepted by both.

"I need out of these bloody clothes," Isabela stretched languidly, scowling at the stains all over her bodice, "Come along, sweet cheeks. I'm going to put those skilled fingers of yours to use. Then you can help me get undressed."

"Must you be a slattern even in the Grand Cathedral?" Aveline's weary demand was a reproachful groan.

"She's hardly about to lie in front of the Maker," Varric reasoned, the logic of his voice giving way to the inevitable punchline never far from his comments, "Hawke would insist on a threesome."

"I'm going to go check the perimeter and pray. For all of you." The guard captain rolled her eyes and marched stiffly out of the room.

"Can't let the Big Girl's prayers go wasted then, can we?" Isabela grinned, grabbing Hawke's collar and dragging the Champion from the room not far behind Aveline.

"Not a bad idea, that. How about it, Solace? Fancy a bit of bottle or body to numb the day?" Elani tagged her 'cousin' in the shoulder and headed for an exit of her own. Zevran was still hanging about somewhere and sure to be game for any sort of fun. He didn't seem the sort to mind if she showed up with another pretty girl for him to treat. Didn't have to be weird just because they were related. They could take turns.

"I," the mage hesitated, words and thoughts still spiraling beyond her grasp in the aftermath of the bombshell that had wrecked her hold on reality, "I think I'd better just be alone for a while."

"Suit yourself," the elf shrugged, adjusting the strap on her satchel before she skipped from the room over blood puddles and severed limbs.

"Nightingale is gonna have fun with that one." Varric shook his head, grin so wide it threatened to crack open his ears.

* * *

The Inquisitor and Seeker followed Leliana with a sense of déjà vu. Trevelyan glanced to Cassandra, noting that the Nevarran looked lost in her own thoughts. How many times had everything they knew about their world been turned inside out? From the day Eve dropped out of that rift in the sky with a glowing hand, she'd stopped trying to force facts and events to fit any of what she'd once believed. Standing around trying to understand things was just another chance for fate to catch up and kill you. Seekers, however, were trained not just to fight for truth but to find it wherever it was hidden, to ferret out the answers that lay submerged in shadow and bring forth illumination that comes from the Maker's own guidance. A fiery, all-seeing eye was their symbol for good reason.

Inquisitor Trevelyan had watched Cassandra struggle with her own anger and doubt each time another piece of the world she understood shattered. The supposed killer of the Divine became the Herald of Andraste, their only hope of salvation. The Seekers were betrayed by their leader and led to death, few if any survivors scattered to the winds. The Vigil she'd so faithfully endured actually culminated in Tranquility. Her own Order bore the blame for an injustice mages had suffered for centuries. The Chantry's Exalted March on the Dales came from little more than an ill-fated romance, condemning elvhen to degradation. Human beings could cross into and walk the Fade. With each successive revelation Cassandra had no choice but to contort or surrender another fragment of what she believed. That was why it was all the more remarkable that none of it had ever shaken her faith.

Eve glanced at the Nevarran warrior, admiring as always the determined set of her jaw, the sharp intellect of her eyes, the disciplined hint of anticipation in the line of her mouth. It was the same when she was in battle, in negotiations, in arguments public and private, during the suspenseful exploration of dark ruins or gazing from the top of the battlements to the accomplishments of their victories below. It was Cassandra's constant look of thought and the woman was always thinking.

 _Except when she's not._ The Inquisitor did her best to suppress the tug of smile fighting at the edge of her lips. There were a handful of expressions that she knew the Seeker never shared with anyone else and she studied and memorized every one as if she were the Prophet receiving a vision. There was the favor of her genuine smile; never shy, confessing the affection that softened all her features. She had a petulant frown that creased her brow when she was losing a game, usually Wicked Grace or chess but sometimes the impromptu wrestling matches that so destroyed the Inquisitor's quarters. Her face was beatific in the peace of sleep, unmarred by worries, danger or duty. Other times she was positively demonic; eyes flashing with challenge and temptation and barely restrained impulses, daring Trevelyan to push her one inch closer to the breaking point. Then, of course, there was the look when she truly broke . . .

"Thoughts?" Leliana's gentle inquiry caught the Inquisitor by surprise. She hadn't even realized that they'd stopped walking, ensconced now in the privacy of the Divine's own quarters. For a split second she feared her former seneschal was performing her mind reading trick once again and teasing her for the indulgent wandering. But the redhead wasn't even looking at her; she'd moved to the side of the room and was gazing out a magnificent stained glass window.

The Inquisitor spent a few seconds deliberately throwing her eyes around the room, taking it in as she bought time to bring her thoughts back on track. She briefly caught Cassandra's amusement, a miniscule quirk of one brow accusing her lover of familiar crimes. Trevelyan shifted one shoulder in an unapologetic shrug. It was hardly her fault the Seeker was so beguiling.

"I think you should find out which Divine first asked for a bed that big. I'm certain there are some poorly concealed secrets behind such a massive mattress." Eve nodded to the monstrous piece of furniture, clearly never intended for a sole occupant no matter how much she indulged in Orlesian pastry. That was a bed designed for an entirely different vice.

"Sage, Lady Herald. However, I think rather than sleeping arrangements our time might be better spent discussing the turn of events this day, yes?" Leliana was well accustomed to the Inquisitor's humor, the only one of her advisor's that was never confused, annoyed or distracted by any jest. She absorbed the jokes, smiled patiently or even with an echoing mirth, then gently forced the conversation back to serious ground.

"You wished for symbols that would move Andrasteans to accept your reforms," The Seeker was always more willing to be grave, "You now have two of the most vulgar, unpredictable and outright scandalous women in Thedas; short of resorting to whores. Do you truly believe they can inspire the support you need?"

"The ranks of the faithful have more whores than saints, Cassandra. Justinia knew that. We do not win their hearts by showing them ideals they cannot relate to," The redhead's hand gestured to the stained glass, a depiction of Andraste in her perfection but – more importantly – surrounded by flawed and mortal allies, "The righteous do not need redemption but the weak need hope. We have an elven thief, hunted by an enemy feared throughout the south and we have a Tranquil mage, free but stripped of her powers. How could they fail to represent the potential future that all their kind might have in the Chantry to come?"

"Will you identify them both as Andraste's blood?" The Inquisitor had seen a subtle play of calculation crossing her friend's face. In the tiny lines that shifted and turned beside the Divine's eyes Trevelyan thought she saw the beginnings of a deception. It wouldn't be a lie precisely, but a collection of half-truths strung together so artfully that truth and lie would lose any difference.

"No," at the last second the lines of cunning vanished, "To do so would cause a conflict that could overshadow our purpose. Show Orlais a pebble and a boulder and they will fall to fighting over the smallest stone because it is easier to move."

Trevelyan had personally witnessed more than enough of those damnable pebble-based arguments. It didn't matter whether it was Orlais, Ferelden, Antiva or the blighted Anderfels; it was human nature to fixate on the smaller problem because that was the one that gave everyone an illusion of control. She'd watched arguments rage for hours about whether the Herald of Andraste was a savior or heretic, all under the terrifying presence of a gash in the sky.

For Unification to work they could never lose sight of what the Divine's plan truly had to offer: equality. Elves needed to be granted respect and recognition. Elani's mixed blood, a heritage of heroism and divinity, was evidence of a love that elevated her entire race from the slums of inner city poverty to chosen consort of a Prophet. Mages and Tranquil, however, needed to trust that they were once and for all free. Free and safe. Solace's gift would erase the blot of Tranquility and even tip the scales of justice, bringing back into balance everything that was destroyed the day the Seekers handed the Rite over to the Circles.

"She'll have to be trained." The Inquisitor voiced the concern that she knew Leliana needed brought out. There was a better chance of Cassandra accepting the idea if it came from her. Better, but not much. The Seeker's eyes shot up to her, hazel electrified with horror.

"The Order is in shambles." The warrior instantly objected, her entire posture stiffening as if she anticipated a slap. Or perhaps she'd already felt one.

"And here you have been granted a gift to help you rebuild. She might be the first of many, Cassandra. Would you truly leave her untaught with such power?" The Divine's mellifluous words wove around the Right Hand, fond sarcasm teasing at her stubborn pride.

"Seekers begin training at six. I was the oldest to start and that was still only twelve. To take a woman already past adolescence!" Cassandra struggled to find words that could express the sheer enormity of the task, "She has no discipline. None of the background, mindset or reflexes that could make her into a fighter."

"But she has the skill. Like it or not, she does have a Seeker's gift. If she isn't trained she'll just be a threat to every mage and lyrium deposit in Thedas." Trevelyan folded her arms, siding with the Divine even though she knew she'd pay for it later.

"I think you'll find her an eager student. Her whole world has been changed. She's looking for any means to capture a measure of control once more." Leliana's glance darted over to the Inquisitor, sharing a brief moment of empathy. They had all felt such moments, flailing for some handle on a universe spinning wildly beyond their grasp. The panic and confusion radiating off the mage was familiar to them all.

"Not to mention she's got a crush on you, Cassandra." Trevelyan decided to hammer in one last nail. It was rewarding just to see the Seeker glare at her in a fit of disbelief and embarrassment. _Still no idea how bloody gorgeous you are._

"You are joking." The Nevarran shook her head, rejecting the idea and trying to free herself from the awkward implications.

"Often, yes," Leliana consented to agree with that much of Cassandra's protest, then she continued with a shade of mischief, "But not in this case. Her infatuation is quite obvious. Though I would be more inclined to call it hero worship, yes?"

"Oh, definitely. Cassandra is the knight in blood stained armor. I'm just arm candy." The Inquisitor's laughter was a familiar trademark in these conversations, always happy to break the tension so everyone else could focus on what mattered. What mattered was convincing the Seeker to train Solace.

"Your lascivious suspicions aside," The Seeker scowled meaningfully at Eve, "Training her is not an option. She is offensive, impulsive, uncontrolled and already completely corrupted from years of indulgence in vice."

"She also," Leliana continued the thought without missing a beat, "Has been given a power that she neither asked for nor understands. She has willingly accepted that her life has changed forever and has proven cooperative so long as we treat her with respect. Perhaps we should just complete the picture by accusing her of murder and throwing her in a cell for a few days, yes?"

The Inquisitor could feel the intensity of two pairs of eyes latching onto her. Leliana's sapphire gaze sparkled with smug satisfaction while Cassandra's was laced with surprised recognition. She could see amusement in both as she shifted beneath the scrutiny. Eve would be the first to admit that words like impulsive, uncontrolled and vice figured quite heavily into her life before the Inquisition. She wasn't sure she cared for offensive or corrupt though.

"Don't go getting ideas, Seeker," Trevelyan warned, playfully stern.

"She does at least have a strong devotion to the Maker." The Seeker pursed her lips. It kept her from smirking. She so enjoyed teasing the Inquisitor when she could, opportunities were rare.

"Fine, you train Solace and I'll start memorizing the Chant of Light." Eve surrendered a compromise that would damn her to far worse tortures than anything the Nevarran might have to endure. She was relieved to see the glimmer of fondness that had broken through her lover's stubborn gaze.

"I know your mouth far too well to ever expect you to utter holy verse, Inquisitor." Cassandra taunted, the curve of her smile pulling attention to her mouth. The Seeker - blunt, terse, aggressive and violent – always shocked her fellow warrior when she showed such a mastery of suggestion. The subtle innuendo was all the more perfect when it came from lips that had spent a lifetime devoted to sacred words.

"Then I guess you'll just have to pray for me, Seeker." Trevelyan kept her reply light and airy, a chuckle disguising the tiny crack in her voice.

"Perhaps I must pray for you both? I fear you will be too busy to think of such devotions," Leliana's own laughter was a breathy delight, "When you both must be involved in training the mage to be all that she can."

The Inquisitor paused, digesting the veiled command. Solace needed to learn to harness her new power but beyond that there was much more to becoming a Seeker. She'd need to learn fighting skills unlike anything she'd had to use in the past. There would be armor fittings, speed drills, reflex training, offense and defense studies, sparring, strategy . . . It dawned on Eve that it would actually be unfair to demand Cassandra do it all herself.

"That's not a bad idea. I'll be able to keep an eye on her to make sure she behaves," Trevelyan gradually agreed, nodding as the scenario made more and more sense.

"Undoubtedly by forbidding anything that _you_ would do," the Seeker observed; accurate, scathing and affectionate all at once.

"Stick to what you know, right?" Eve grinned before a serious thought crossed her mind, "We can't stay here though, Leliana. Inquisition business won't wait forever. She'll have to go back with us to Skyhold."

"As she will, once the enthronement is complete and I make my first address. She will be far safer in your company than here in the Grand Cathedral. My agents will have work enough protecting the thief from herself." A roll of blue heavenward, beseeching divine patience for the coming task.

"Then we're agreed?" The Inquisitor looked from Leliana back to Cassandra, watching as reluctant surrender softened the warrior's iron stance. She could be trusted to see reason, just as she would always resist it at first for the sheer pleasure of a fight.

"Very well. Mastering a gift of the Vigil is the last training Seekers receive. I can at least teach her not to hurt anyone else." The Seeker finally gave her assent, the sigh of beleaguered patience not quite dramatic enough to contradict the enthused spark in her eyes. The mage was hardly a gift from the Maker or an omen for the future of the Seekers. But she _was_ a challenge. Cassandra always liked those.

* * *

_Servants and initiates were forbidden to engage in games of chance in the sacred halls of the Grand Cathedral. For the most part their devotion and faith obliterated any temptation to break such rules. The guests in the east wing, however, left them no option. The young brother who'd drawn the short straw crept as noiselessly and quickly as he could down the corridor. His eyes were fixed on the abandoned dinner tray that had been left outside Ser Tethras' room, more empty bottles than there had been cups to fill. A loud curse and raucous laughter from beyond the door startled him, making him knock over three of the bottles and break a glass as he scrambled to gather everything. By the sound of the voices the dwarf was entertaining nearly half a dozen friends of both genders. At least one of which was adept at acrobatics; a bubble of giggling laughter had the echoing sound of having floated down from the ceiling. The initiate, who'd left the fields of Ferelden for the allure of Orlais and promptly fell into the gutter, repeated his favorite verses from Benedictions beneath his breath. Images of a dwarf surrounded by scantily clad aerialists and drunken courtesans gradually bled away. His hands were calm as he balanced the salver, turning with supernatural peace to stride confidently back up the corridor._

_"_ _Maker's balls, Hawke! Are you trying to rip them off?" The shout, exotic in the fluctuations of tone and base with lust and laughter came from another door just as the brother was passing. The tray trembled violently in his hands and with a prayer of apology to the Maker he dropped everything and fled._

"It's not my fault you're twisting around too much," Hawke's answer laughed back into Isabela's ear, tugging the pirate's body closer to her own.

"You don't have to grip _that_ hard, sweet thing. I'm rather attached, you know." The Rivaini raider instinctively fought against the pull, the warring forces of resistance and conquest keeping her muscles coiled and taut.

"I'm pretty fond of them myself," Hawke pointed out, the brush of her lips against dark skin causing a violent shudder, "Andraste's ass, you're sensitive tonight!"

"Nothing like a good fight to get the fire going," Isabela's breath caught when a second trail of kisses ended with teeth on her ear, "Watching you rip through those soldiers? The only thing better would be if you were naked."

Hawke's laughter ruffled her hair, freed from its bandana and spilling loose around her neck and shoulders. The press of armor against her back was unforgiving but even beneath the metal plates she could feel the contours of the Champion's familiar form.

"We did that, Bela. Twice. It was bad enough visiting Anders _before_ he knew what my ass looked like." The Fereldan's groan was obviously meant to be the chagrin of past humiliations but it was impossibly close to the sound Isabela knew to be a delicious surrender.

"Can't blame the man. It's a lovely ass." The sailor's hand slid backwards, finding the cool brush of metal over Hawke's hip, digging her nails into soft leather in the armor's gaps.

"Ah-ah. Not done with you yet." The Champion swatted her lover's hand away, busying herself once more with the punishment that forced Isabela's lithe curves to submit to her will.

"Would you hurry up and – Maker's bloody nose! I like it rough, sweets, but that hurt!" Isabela gasped for breath after the sharp pain had ripped air out of her lungs.

"Sorry, but you said to hurry." Hawke's soothing words murmured against her shoulder, a litany of apologies falling from her tongue against skin. Isabela couldn't see the woman's face but she knew her lover's blue eyes would've turned to sad bruises, horrified to have caused any pain. She had the most damnably melting, kicked puppy expression when she needed forgiveness.

"Not your fault," the pirate admitted, easing back into the contradiction of soft lips and strong hands, "But try to remember they're the only two I've got."

"So I'll buy you more. It's not my fault you took that blow from behind." The Champion adjusted her grip, trying once more to find some leverage to force the metal clasps of Isabela's dagger harness to release. The bent iron refused to budge, no matter how Hawke yanked and twisted. The unpredictable force dragged the sailor to collide and press against her, making it all the harder to concentrate. The unexpected wrestling had them both sweating in the cool evening air and Hawke's fingers were getting slick, struggling to hold her grip.

"Actually it is. I was distracted noticing how your face when you kill someone is exactly the same as when you're about to – Ah! Kiss Andraste's dimpled cheeks, that feels better!" Isabela let out a triumphant sigh of release, taking a deep breath as the pressure cutting into her ribs and back finally vanished.

"Sorry, Bela. I'll buy you a new harness tomorrow." Hawke ruefully tossed the damaged set of sheaths aside. The bent metal was beyond repair, as were the leather straps that she'd just sliced through with her dagger. The pirate stretched, savoring her restored freedom, then turned and laced her arms around the Champion's neck.

"If we're going into town to do a bit of shopping, I have a few ideas of other leathery things we could pick up." Isabela's full lips curled into the trademark of temptation that had been the fall of men and women in every port of Thedas.

"You're not going to be satisfied until you've made every sister in this holy hole have a wet dream." Hawke chuckled and answered the embrace with her own arms, the pirate slipping perfectly into position against her like a puzzle piece.

"Trust me, sweets, I intend to be very thoroughly satisfied with you." The sailor's purred reply blurred the line between affection and allure.

"Given up on that foursome, have you?" Hawke was mesmerized by the heat in Isabela's amber eyes, lust and love wound together so tight it was impossible to know where each began and ended. Just like the rest of their relationship. Lust to love to more lust; no one else could trap the Champion in such a dizzying spiral of feeling and she was always thrilled, in those moments when she struggled for air, to find her lover caught in the exact same tides.

"I'll have to make do with our usual playmates. The sexy steel stallion simply isn't up for grabs." The pirate's sad, dreamy sigh confirmed that her odd fascination with the Seeker hadn't abated.

"Oh, you could grab her. But not even you could hold on," the Champion teased, dragging one hand lower on the dark woman's hip, tickling the edge of skin just below the hem of her shirt.

"Sweet thing, when I really want something I hold on. Trust me." The sailor threaded her fingers into short, messy strands of black hair, tugging lightly to drag Hawke's face inches closer.

"I know, Bela." The playful expression in glittering blue eyes softened to sentiment, warmed by the open sincerity they only fully shared in private. Isabela tilted up, lips so close she could feel her love's mouth hungering to meet hers.

"Hawke?" She paused, teasing at the edge of a kiss.

"Hmmm?" The Champion was completely fixated on the promise of the pirate's lips, restrained only by Isabela's control.

"Why am I still dressed?" The breathy whisper was all the permission Hawke needed.

* * *


	35. Act IX:i The Price of Peace

With the ringleader of the Sectarians and the bulk of their army locked away, no one expected further attacks on the Divine. Charter and Sparrow, as dangerous as they were mysterious, had effectively ripped facts and information from the captured survivors (along with fingernails, teeth, a few of the less vital organs) and were both confident that the rebellion was quashed. Still, the Warden seldom wandered far from the throne room during the Chant, a vigilance that impressed the nobles but continued to make clerics cringe. The Inquisitor eased the number of patrols around the Grand Cathedral, allowing her friends the time they needed to rest and enjoy their victory.

"On the war table? Really? What did you do?" Hawke's laugh of disbelief echoed off the empty hall.

"What could I do?" The Inquisitor shook her head helplessly, "As soon as we got back I told Cullen to put a new lock on the war room door and asked Josephine to replace all the map markers. I don't even want to think about what sort of dents those sharp little carvings might have left in Dorian's backside."

"Assuming it was his backside." The Champion laughed again at her companion's melodramatic shudder.

Hawke and Trevelyan had decided to continue the sweeps. Miles of cathedral corridors and galleries needed at least occasional inspection and they'd both seized on the duty with relief. Neither of them had a taste for Chantry ceremonies or holding still. Besides, only when they stayed on the move did they stand a chance of avoiding Josephine.

"There you are!" The gently scolding accent caught them both from behind. The Inquisitor and Champion exchanged tiny cringes of silent, guilty pain. The Antivan diplomat had an uncanny gift for finding them no matter where they'd tried to escape.

"Ambassador." Hawke turned around in surrender. No one could truly fight or evade Josephine, she was too damnably sweet. The very idea that the two heroines might have been deliberately avoiding her would be sure to paint a misery of heartbreak across her lovely face.

"I have several reports of disturbance that need both of your attention. I've dealt with as many as possible but you should at least be aware of these." Josephine held her board full of papers the way a warrior might wield a weapon. Trevelyan didn't doubt that - thanks to the ambassador - the Inquisition had won as many battles by quill and ink as it had with sword and shield.

"As you wish, Lady Montilyet. What do you have for us today?" The Inquisitor bowed as if asking the Antivan to dance. In a way, she was.

"Comtesse de Churneau is most upset that an intruder crept into her bed last night. Mostly because the visitor abruptly departed before she could make use of their company." Josephine glanced between the two women, watching them with the same amused, studious expression that was so unnerving at cards.

"That would be Merrill. She gets terribly lost in new places. I'll find her some string." Hawke shook her head ruefully, ever entertained by her friend's innocent dangers.

"Three cases of holy wine have gone missing in the last two nights. That is enough for nine Chantries for a month." The Ambassador's protesting tone was more shock than actual rebuke. She was familiar with the vice and indulgences of the Inquisition but there were times when even she was still surprised.

"That's because it's weak as horse piss. Contact a local tavern and get them to send up a couple mixed cases. Preferably only stuff strong enough to knock a druffalo on its ass." The Inquisitor knew her people well.

Some of her friends never drank; like Solas and Cole, though she was hoping to ease the spirit into the world of liquor before long. He lived in a bloody tavern after all. Then there were the ones that drank sparingly: Vivienne, Cassandra, Leliana and Josephine; none of them were willing to surrender their control, at least not in public. (Vivienne only ever drank those vile Orlesian syrups that were served by the thimble in ornate crystal, the kind that could turn a belch into a weapon too close to a candle.) But the rest of her allies more than made up for the discipline and deprivations of these few by imbibing often and enthusiastically.

"Very well, I have also arranged for the Inquisition to offer a donation that should offset their loss," the Ambassador ticked another item off her list, "The groundskeepers have complained that someone is leaving out bits of food in odd places and it is attracting rats."

"That could be Merrill again. She loves anything furry." Hawke considered the only member of her band that could be responsible, looking to the Inquisitor for further explanation.

"No, it sounds like Cole. Rats attract cats, cats have kittens, kittens comfort lonely initiates and cranky spinsters," Trevelyan wasn't sure if she was proud or disturbed to understand the strange blonde's random logic, "Don't worry, once Cole leaves the rats will too. The only cats that will stick around will be the ones getting spoiled by the sisters and servants."

"A less unsanitary nuisance, I suppose. Moving on, the locks to the treasury have been jammed with a number of broken picks." Now the Ambassador's mouth lost some of her traces of good humor. Pranks and indulgences she could manage; outright crimes tended to be harder to sweep away.

"Isabela, Sera or Elani?" Hawke turned to Trevelyan, both taking a moment to ponder the most likely suspects.

"Was there blood on the lock?" The Inquisitor pictured each of the three women trying to work their magic on the formidable iron securities. It wouldn't even be because any of them wanted something inside; it was simply a thief's point of pride to get in where they weren't wanted.

"I do not believe so." Josephine flipped to the relevant report, studying it once more to verify she hadn't missed such a detail.

"Then it was Isabela. Sera would keep at it 'til she ripped her fingers open." Eve let out a small breath of relief.

"And Elani would just blow the damn thing up." Hawke's face beamed with pride in both her criminal friends. It was a rogue thing.

"As we are on the topic of stealing: a set of ceremonial robes has gone missing from the Revestry. Why anyone would want such a thing I cannot imagine." The Ambassador's naked bewilderment was almost as adorable as the painfully innocent confession.

"Oh, I can." Trevelyan couldn't stop the bubble of laughter that burst from her lips. She had to remember that for all her political shrewdness and savvy, Josephine maintained a delicate shield of naiveté between herself and the larger world.

"That could be anyone wanting to play a game of naughty cleric." Hawke joined in with her own chuckle.

"Yes but my money's on Dorian. He loves a bit of dress up." The Inquisitor knew that though Josephine was blushing now, she wouldn't even flinch when it came time to demand the robes back from the Tevinter mage.

The list of complaints carried on for another half an hour, each a testament to the dauntless high spirits and incorrigible creativity that was leaving its mark on every corner of the Grand Cathedral. Four servants were late reporting for duty that morning, two missing clothing. Seventeen initiates had locked themselves in their rooms to commit themselves to prayer. Nine refused to go into the cloister because _someone_ had convinced them it was haunted. Two sisters had to be reprimanded for lurking around Iron Bull's chambers. Three brothers left holy service (and presumably raced straight to the White Rose). Finally, half the kitchen staff wanted to transfer to Skyhold just so they could continue to watch Sera eat.

"At least no one's fucking on the balconies." The Inquisitor smirked over at Hawke. Eve tried to take all the reports as seriously as Josephine's face insisted but she couldn't. It took crazy people to fight the impossible. They weren't going to stop being crazy just because the job was done.

"Not necessarily. I simply haven't received a complaint," Lady Montilyet corrected, a roll of laughter just beneath her serious words, "I suggest, Your Worship, you make sure that doesn't change."

The Antivan turned away, barely hiding the knowing smile that had curled her lips with that parting shot. She walked swiftly back down the corridor, already bent on other duties and industrious tasks.

"Did she just accuse –?" The Champion's mocking brow dared Trevelyan to look away.

"Not me," the Inquisitor quickly shook her head, clearing away her surprise at the subtle hint, "Not here anyway."

The Grand Cathedral during the enthronement ceremonies was hardly the sort of place she'd lure Cassandra into anything so exhibitionist. Back at Skyhold, on the other hand . . . Her balcony _was_ the highest in the entire fortress and anyone on it was all but invisible from the ground. Not even sound could carry such distances as anything more than a faint echo like bird cry. Which could only leave Trevelyan to puzzle: how in the Maker's name did Josephine find out?

"Your ambassador is quite the woman, Inquisitor." Hawke laughed at her companion's perplexed expression.

"That she is, Hawke," Trevelyan agreed, chuckle soft with sincere affection. Perhaps tomorrow they'd patrol the cellars. Josephine couldn't possibly think to look for them there.

* * *

Morrigan stood beside a pillar overlooking the inner courtyard gardens. Her pale skin blended seamlessly with the marble as she leaned slightly to one side, folding her arms as she regarded the scene below. Kieran had never shown any interest in an assassin's skills before. But then, the Warden was a mage and the Inquisitor a warrior; he'd never had opportunity to interrogate and study a rogue up close. The witch was hardly about to let her son learn lessons from a skinny Chantry girl or libidinous elf.

Each time Kieran successfully guessed at the hiding place of a weapon on Lady de Vici he was rewarded with a full explanation of its use. Then he was given an opportunity to use it himself. Morrigan had never been one to conceal the dangers of the world from her child; she knew he'd need to be able to protect himself. Still, she wasn't sure she liked him learning to throw daggers. Until he managed to land one blade in the head of a topiary shaped like Andraste. At that point the apostate decided she wholly approved.

She watched as the boy continued probing Ravenel for hidden weapons, all three of them startled when questing fingers accidentally found a ticklish spot in her side. Half way down her ribs; Morrigan knew that weakness and the shuddering breath it produced when graced with the touch of lips. The Antivan's sudden laughter was echoed by Kieran's own, delighted to have found an entirely new game. De Vici darted away, trying to stay just out of reach of the small teasing hands without ever completely evading him.

They were having fun. Happy. It filled Morrigan with an uncomfortable, nameless weight; a pressure that rose up inside her, swelling larger with each passing breath. She was only used to this overwhelming confusion from within when she was standing near Ravenel, when she found nightshade eyes patiently stripping away her calm. She could make it go away by reaching for the assassin, dragging them both away from anything to do with longing or aching affections or any of the emotions that roiled so dangerously when they were together. The intimacy of skin, fevered, thorough, agonizing as it wiped away thought, still wasn't always enough. Much as she wanted to lose herself in the sensations she couldn't block out the whispers in each touch, the feelings that had nothing at all to do with flesh. She was never aware of the hollow inside herself until it started filling up with warmth and weakness, soft and intoxicating as the assassin's every caress.

She couldn't bring herself to watch de Vici's face in those moments, incapable of confronting what she knew she would see. It was bad enough that she could feel the fall of prayers in every kiss against her skin, a war being waged in the hands that traced her body. Every shivering breath, murmur of praise and whisper of her name was the same confession a hundred times. Morrigan could feel emotion battering against the carefully fortified walls that kept the world at arm's length, shattering as catapult stones, persistent as a flood. Her only defenses were lips and fingers, nails and teeth mounting skilled assault until nothing was left of either of them but angry red lines and tender bruises and minds too exhausted for anything but sleep. The harder she clawed and fought to shatter any illusions of tenderness, the gentler the arms that cradled her to dreams.

"You know, someone happening by might think you were spying." The mocking voice pulled Morrigan from her muddled thoughts. For the first time she was actually grateful to see Isabela leering at her.

"And what would they think of you?" The apostate challenged, skeptically analyzing the pirate's position above.

"Everything I want them to." The sailor grinned and finished climbing down from the upper floor, sliding easily down the pillar but pausing long enough to strike one salacious pose.

"Of course, how foolish of me," Morrigan rolled her eyes at the vulgar display, "Dare I ask why you are climbing the Grand Cathedral like the filthy rigging on your ship?"

"Aveline has guards tracking me all over the place. Decided I'd give them the slip and go leave a little surprise for the Big Girl in her room." Isabela dropped to the ground. The apostate nodded, feeling they'd engaged in sufficiently civil conversation and she was free to turn away once more. Much as Morrigan hoped the Rivaini woman would take a hint and swagger off to defile some willing innocent, Isabela stopped beside her and leaned forward on the railing.

"Yours?" The pirate's vague question implied either Kieran, Ravenel or some variation of them both.

"Tis hardly your concern." Morrigan's reply was colder than the marble beneath her hands. The sailor had no swift reply, only a quiet that stretched on to awkward minutes until the apostate thought she might have to scream at the woman to take her loud silences elsewhere.

"Kind of frightening, isn't it?" Isabela finally spoke once more, eyes riveted on the two laughing below.

"Your presence? I'd be more inclined to describe it as offensive," the apostate taunted, trusting that the sailor's invariable taste for insults and arguments would distract her from whatever she thought she saw.

"It's scary finding someone you actually like. Someone different from all the others." The pirate could be annoyingly tenacious when she chose.

"'Different.' I suppose that's one way of describing her." Morrigan felt the beginnings of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, contemplating the scope of such an understatement. She could feel the muscles in her shoulders tightening, coiling for defense against some inevitable attempt at insight. The pirate's infuriatingly languid tone did nothing to disguise smugness, everything that she thought she knew. If anyone was to dare lecture her about Lady de Vici it might be the Inquisitor or the Warden; damnation, even Leliana but not this abandoned whore.

"Mind, she's not half as scary as you, ice bitch. But I'm sure you can work on that," Isabela tsked and straightened up, moving to leave.

Morrigan turned, the snap of muscles prepared for a fight wrenching her to face the woman with surprise instead. The casual calm of the sailor had no hint of condescension, no tease of secrets in her eyes, only a vague boredom in her observations. In a moment of silent truce the apostate saw a glimmer of empathy in the pirate, not pity but the echoes of a frustration few could ever understand.

"I shall take that into consideration," the apostate carefully acknowledged, her measured tones answering everything unsaid.

"If you ever want some suggestions on roleplaying or warmups, I'm your whore," Isabela winked, sauntering towards the cathedral doors.

"Just what surprise do you intend to leave for Captain Vallen?" Morrigan called just before the pirate reached for the handle.

"I'm thinking something all tied up in a bow. Naked, preferably," the pirate grinned, leaving the scandalous image lingering in the air like her fading laughter.

Morrigan shook her head, her gaze inevitably falling back to the assassin and child playing in the garden. As though they sensed the weight of her attention, both turned and looked up at her. Kieran waved enthusiastically, calling at her to come join them. De Vici's smile was more guarded, trying to divine the witch's thoughts and mood. Whatever the expression on her lips, her eyes remained the same.

_"_ _No. I want to see you. Please." Ravenel's gentle insistence matched the tug of her fingers pulling Morrigan away. She'd wanted only to bury her face in the Antivan's hair, to hide the overwhelming surrender that she knew threatened to bleed into her eyes. She could feel breath on her cheek, the coax of lips against her own begging as persuasively as words. A strangled protest barely escaped her throat as her eyes opened, immediately engulfed in a world of midnight and violet. Her thoughts were fragmenting as she desperately tried to marshal them, coherency lost in each successive wave of her body's commands. There was only softness and need, pleasure and heat and now the emotion scorching a path from the assassin's dark gaze straight into her soul. Ravenel loved her. The fact shattered along with the rest of her mind as her body broke free of thought._

A fine line creased Morrigan's brow as the previous evening came back again. She had lain awake for some time after, despite her languid satisfaction. Over and over her mind chased itself in circles, confused as to why she was frustrated and frustrated in her confusion. The witch had wanted this to be a simple relief of the desires that had threatened to overwhelm them both. She thought it could be easy, convenient even. She didn't want it to be more than it was.

Walking down into the garden to the warm delight of Kieran and Ravenel alike, Morrigan felt coils of suspicion turning into certainty. Everything had already gotten complicated. It had been from the day they met.

* * *

The Refectory of the Grand Cathedral was a dining hall for the Chantry's holy family from morning song to last prayer. After that, however, it became an acceptable substitute for a tavern. With all the faithful safely in bed, the large hall was the domain of fighters, thieves, mercenaries, mages and all other private guests of the Divine.

"Up yours, Inky!" Sera's shout was just warning enough for Trevelyan to spin, snagging the tossed bottle out of the air.

"Watch it, Fuzzyhead. One of those bursts on the wall and it'll eat through the wood," Blackwall chided.

"Moan moan. You're so bloody cranky when Josephine's off licking noble arse for the night! Hope you make her wash her mouth out before you go kissing." The blonde rolled her eyes and fell back into the crowd watching a round of Wicked Grace. Anyone who could identify the exact moment Varric cheated won a coin from the pot.

The Inquisitor uncorked her bottle, amused to note that the stopper had been partially devoured by the alcohol. Val Royeaux taverns had definitely come through. The vapors burned in her nostrils long before the actual liquor set fire to her throat. What few nerves she had left in her mouth after drinking with Iron Bull buzzed excitedly. Or that might have been them dissolving.

"Inquisitor, pull up a chair. Quickly. This stuff goes to your head faster than sailors to a brothel." Hawke waved to the warrior, gesturing to an empty spot at the table where she and the Warden were relaxing.

"Would that be sailors in general or just Isabela herself?" Trevelyan dropped onto the bench, already noting the pleasant relaxation uncoiling from her stomach into the rest of her muscles.

"Nothing's faster than Isabela," the Champion scoffed, glancing over her shoulder to spot the Captain. Several enterprising (well-muscled) associates had wrestled a long table onto its end, setting it against the far wall with a bullseye drawn on. The Rivaini pirate was matching skills against Zevran.

"Does this not remind you of our time in Antiva, my beauty?" The former Crow smiled wistfully to Isabela.

"Mmm. All those hot afternoons, learning proper grip and thrust." The sailor's eyes roamed over Zevran's body with familiarity. She barely even looked at the target as she let fly another dagger, landing three inches closer to center than his own.

"You have improved markedly since then. It is good to see you have put your natural gifts to use." The elf watched Isabela saunter to the bullseye to pull the daggers free, tilting his head to better appreciate aforesaid 'gifts.'

"I get a lot of practice, sweet cheeks." The exotic beauty turned around, gaze finding Hawke and blowing her a kiss. The innocent gesture was rather compromised by the fact that she pressed her lips between two spread fingers first.

"We need Killer down here. She's got so many of those little throwing daggers she'd nail that target to the wall." Elani was in the game of Wicked Grace with Varric and the others. She was in awfully high spirits for someone losing. The smug grin plastered so contentedly across her face was three kinds of trickery. The Inquisitor instinctively knew that Varric wasn't cheating alone.

"I think the Lady is busy nailing something else." Isabela's typical ribald retort danced with the laughter of a secret. One that had the Inquisitor and Warden exchanging glances. The Hero had known Morrigan far longer than Trevelyan but even her face showed a confused skepticism, trying to picture the scornful sorceress actually _choosing_ the company of another human being.

"How does that even happen?" The Inquisitor shook her head, blocking any possible mental images. It didn't help that the witch tended to wear almost as little clothing as Isabela.

"Well, Lady Trevelyan," Hawke leaned across the table, prepared to enlighten them both, "When two women like each other very much, or have had too much to drink, or are just feeling a bit pissed off at the men in their lives and looking for something different –." Anything further was cut off by Solona chucking her empty mug at her chortling cousin's head. The Champion good-naturedly twisted to grab the missile off the floor, her face screwing up in distaste as she smelled the drained contents.

"What is this rot you're drinking?" Hawke passed the tankard back.

"Blue. I don't know what's in it. Morrigan and Bethany cook these things up and I just know it's green in the morning, red at noon, blue in the evening and another green before bed." The Warden sighed, pouring another ration of something noxious into the cup. She stared at it with mild resentment, clearly wishing for something more potent.

"Has to be better than Darkspawn blood." The Champion's humor fell into a softer tone, sympathy and support mingling in the squeeze of her hand on the other woman's arm.

"At least that was a one-time only thing. If the Calling wasn't going to make me crazy these will." The Hero shrugged, an easy smile tugging one corner of her mouth into an expression that brought out the Amell family resemblance.

The door of the refectory was shoved open so hard that the slam of it hitting the wall made every table shake. Instinct had fighters already reaching for weapons and charging spells before they saw the lone figure striding angrily into the hall. Relief and laughter rippled through the crowd as they went back about their revelries, all accustomed to the explosive fits of rage that so often presaged Seeker Pentaghast's presence. Cassandra still wore her battle face: eyes narrow, jaw tight, lips a scowl that threatened to bite out someone's throat. She spied the Inquisitor and stalked over, wordlessly leaning on the table as though she might grip the edge and send the whole thing flying at any second.

"Remind me I cannot kill her," the Seeker demanded, words almost incomprehensible through the growling anger.

"Training not going well?" Eve hazarded, forsaking any smirk or sarcasm for now. She'd learned the times when the wrong poke could lead to an explosion.

"It is impossible! She cannot control the gift at all! Half the time nothing happens. Then when it does she cannot aim, cannot limit and cannot stop! Do you have any idea how many lyrium draughts we've gone through?!" Cassandra's armor – usually polished to painful perfection – was marred with scorch marks and scratches from the shrapnel of lyrium explosions.

"The Cathedral's staff has gotten very good at putting out fires though," the Hero pointed out.

"And the Val Royeaux guard never would have found that smuggler's stockpile in the sewers if it hadn't been under your practice area," Hawke contributed as well.

"I told you this would be a problem," the Seeker ignored the well-intentioned arguments, glaring at Trevelyan, "She has no self-control. Her temper breaks her concentration and takes over the power. She lashes out in every direction until there's nothing left to destroy and then she's thoroughly drained herself beyond use!"

"Cassandra, it's only been three days," the Inquisitor reasoned, watching for the signs that the warrior's breath was calming, the ire leaving her voice, "And when did having a temper turn into a crime?"

The eyes stabbing so irritably into her face turned dangerous, windows to the sheer enormity of barely restrained violence within. Then they slammed shut. The Seeker took a deep breath, letting it out as a sigh that shook with the effort of reining in the emotion. When her eyes opened once more, Eve saw the familiar firmness of Cassandra's iron strength, the logic that held passion in check.

"She has no discipline," the Nevarran summarized her ultimate complaint.

"Patience, Seeker, not everyone can have the focus needed to go jumping onto the back of a dragon to save Orlais at the age you did." Warden Amell's admonition toed the line between admiration and sarcasm. A perfect opportunity to change subjects.

"Really? From what Leliana told me, you weren't that much older when you charged off to fight a dragon because you wanted some of the flowers in her nest." Trevelyan happily turned the pressure of attention onto Solona. It was a game they had perfected in their hours of laughter at Skyhold: deflecting gossip with rumors, rumors with stories, stories with scandal until it all worked around in a circle once more. The goal was to never be stuck as the center of conversation.

"They were Leliana's favorite," the Warden made a feeble attempt at defense before accepting the hopelessness of the argument, "Fine. I was young and in love. Other women in my family have been known to be just as horribly foolish when that happens."

In unanimous, synchronized accord all three women looked to Hawke. The Champion finished taking a gulp of her drink, almost oblivious to the shift of scrutiny.

"Didn't you read the book, cousin?" Hawke's lopsided smirk was somehow as wild and brash as her skewed hair, "My duel with the Arishok was an act of 'noble courage' and 'selfless love.' The stuff legends are made of. Or souvenir figurines, at least."

Trevelyan's eyes darted between the Hero and Seeker, checking to see if either of them were buying this load of nugshit.

"Stupid." The Warden shook her head, rejecting Hawke's defense

"Stupid," the Inquisitor concurred, not even a full breath behind the other woman. That only left one vote.

"Stupid," Cassandra sealed the verdict, but her mouth softened into a more tolerant smile, "But romantic."

"Maker's bones, did the Seeker just approve? What _are_ you drinking, Lady Pentaghast?" Hawke's effusive shock was only partially faked. She couldn't disguise the sincere surprise rippling under the swagger of her smirk.

"Nothing. Perhaps that is the problem." Cassandra straightened and headed towards the bar to find either a mug or her own private bottle. Trevelyan noted that she moved with the natural, fluid grace of a fighter safe from battle. She'd calmed enough to allow the languid seduction of her gait to dominate once more. It had taken the better part of year to learn her moods and tells, the tiny hints and subtle twitches that betrayed any emotion other than anger. She'd catalogued every clue, memorized the flavor of all her moods. Yet it still felt as if a thousand lifetimes wouldn't be enough to absorb all the details of the Seeker, to patch the cracks of her soul with the salve of Cassandra's affection.

"Something wrong, Inquisitor? You didn't look at her ass for half as long as usual," the Champion pointed out when Eve turned back to her mug. The Inquisitor paused, studying the contents of her cup, unconsciously wondering if the constant bubbling was the alcohol itself or the result of metal being devoured.

"I was just thinking how lucky the two of you were: finding someone to love when you were still so young. When I remember the people I wasted my time on at that age," Trevelyan felt a pang of regret crease her brow, nights she should've been too drunk to remember, "I was willing to share my bed with them, never my life."

Eve tried to imagine how her life would've been different if she'd been less selfish in her youth. If she'd gone into Templar service like her parents wanted then she might have met Cassandra sooner. Andraste's Dimpled Cheeks, if she'd just gone to Chantry services more often they might have crossed paths. Instead, the better part of a decade of her life had been squandered. A decade when the Hero was conquering the Fifth Blight and rebuilding the wardens of Ferelden. A decade when Hawke was dragging her family out of nothing by her bare hands, raising them to nobility once again and protecting an entire city. The noblest thing Lady Trevelyan had done during that time was breakup with a barmaid because her cousin was interested in the girl. Some days it was hard to shake away the guilt of wasted chances.

"It isn't a matter of age, Inquisitor," the Warden shook her head, eyes instinctively looking to the ceiling as though she could pierce to the room of the Divine, "I think you find the person you want to stand beside you only when you've decided what you stand for."

Eve pondered the words, noting from the corner of her eye the emphatic agreement of Hawke's nod. Varric had taken pains to make the woman into a Champion but even he couldn't disguise that she was simply a woman doing what was best for her family and friends. She was born to be a hero but if Kirkwall hadn't needed her, no one would have known. Heroes rise when they're called. As do their enemies, friends and lovers.

"To the right women." The Inquisitor raised her mug, bringing immediate echoes from the other two.

"Thank the Maker they all have a taste for madness." The Hero added her own toast as they clinked cups. It was the one prayer they could all agree on.

 


	36. Act IX:ii Future's Call

Lady de Vici had learned to tell time by the position of the moon. Assassins cannot simply waste hours in the dark wondering if it is near 2 in the morning yet. They'd opened the window to Morrigan's room at the beginning of the evening, the cool night breeze a welcome respite over fevered skin. Now it allowed pale light to drift in, painting the room silvery white. It was nearly an hour since she'd felt Morrigan's breathing even into the gentle rhythms of sleep. But it was at least five more 'til dawn. As weary and content as her body felt, Ravenel knew she couldn't fake slumber for that long. The witch lay still and peaceful in her arms; much as the assassin wanted only to revel in that wonder, her mind kept drifting far away from the perfect, midnight moment.

_"_ _I can void the Chantry contract, nullifying your family's obligation," Divine Victoria knew she owed the assassin some measure of reward, "But I cannot promise the records will not come to light. They may be necessary to prove Elani's identity."_

_"_ _In which case the Crows will come to their own conclusions about the Archive robbery." Ravenel understood the subtle warning being offered, and the apologetic softening of Leliana's gaze. As soon as the Most Holy asked de Vici to speak in private, she sensed trouble. Good news was shared in public, spread across audiences to celebrate. Bad news always had to be a secret first._

_"_ _Even with an official commendation for your efforts, I cannot guarantee you won't spend the rest of your life being hunted by the Crows. But that was likely to be your fate in either case, yes?" The redhead tilted her face to one side, studying Ravenel as though the next whisper of breath was going to confirm something she already knew._

_The Antivan felt her heart give a sharp lurch, stuttering and then racing ahead as quickly as her mind. The gaze leveled on her now was different from Kieran or Morrigan's scrutiny. The witch and her son had eyes that pierced into a soul, tearing through masks and defenses like wet paper to find every lie and secret buried beneath. Leliana's glittering, cerulean stare was different. She did not penetrate the walls of Ravenel's inscrutable façade to see what was in her heart but to insinuate her own thoughts into the cracks of the assassin's mind. Her unflinching gaze was the confident assurance of a gambler with a rigged game. The barest flicker of sympathy and admiration darted across her eyes. Blood and damnation – she knew._

_"_ _For at least four hundred years no one has killed a de Vici other than a de Vici. I will simply have to work on keeping that part of my family's honor intact as well." The Antivan's smirking reply was the pride of generations, menace to anyone foolish enough to come after her and a flash of acknowledgment in the tilt of her chin. Now five people knew her secret. She had a feeling that the Divine was an expert at keeping them._

_"_ _On that subject, I have an offer that might help." Victoria's mouth – full of sweet words and gentle blessings – spread into a cunning smile that filled Ravenel with the desire to reconsider all religion._

De Vici's mind went over the conversation again and again, the way a tongue restlessly prods at tooth pain. No matter how many times the previous evening replayed in her head she couldn't quite accept that it had been real. Was she drunk? Drugged? Secretly possessed by a rather passive demon?

She hadn't felt even a frisson of panic upon realizing that the Divine understood her unique nature. There should have been a sense of violation, anger, defensiveness at the very least! She should have been seized by the dread that had plagued her as a teenager, reliving terror from the days when the slightest slip might leave her exposed. Where was the fear, the rage, the sullen sense of betrayal? Her only real reaction in the moment was a surge of respect; the woman had figured her out but didn't even think it important enough to mention. It felt as if she'd spent her life jealously guarding a box full of dangers only to find it was empty all along.

The Crows, on the other hand, were very much a real threat. She'd known the executioner's axe would never be far away in her life – though amongst assassins it was more likely to be a razor sharp knife – but she'd bought time by carefully playing by guild rules. The family contract still loomed as the ultimate death sentence but she had another five or ten years before the Crows figured out that she was breaking the pact. A decade before she'd have to give up her entire life in Antiva and flee into shadow. Except now it was only a matter of days. Weeks, perhaps, if news was slow to reach home and the other Talons were embroiled in their usual bloody squabbles. She'd spent almost half her life dreading the day the Crows turned on her. But last night, facing the inevitable truth of the Divine's words, she'd actually smiled.

There wasn't enough alcohol or strong enough drug in all Thedas to explain the ease she felt in that moment. Not even arrogance could lend so much indifferent calm. She truly didn't care. The manor would be ransacked (carefully, once they lost a few people to the traps). Someone clever amongst the Crows might figure out a few bits of fact. A ceaseless wave of assassins would be sent after her, each more expensive and skilled than the last. She would never again be safe setting foot in Antiva City, lest someone recognize her face. There would be no trusting strangers; the more gregarious and charming, the more likely they were to be working for the guild. Not even friends would be safe anymore; those who couldn't be bought could be terrorized instead. Public places would be nests of danger, crowds a nightmare and seclusion only a guarantee of dying alone.

None of it mattered. Ravenel reached into the recesses of her mind, dredging up every shred of paranoia that had shaped her entire life but none of it was willing to linger. Nothing could shatter the strange new conviction that had taken root and filled the space that was once all her worries. Everything that she'd once thought important - the most crucially defining factors of her life – had ceased to be anything other than peripheral nuisances.

Was it madness, miracle or magic?

"Must your thoughts keep me awake as well?" Morrigan's sleepy irritation startled the assassin. She froze, scouring the catalogue of her senses to find any motion that might have betrayed her troubled mind. Years of practice had trained her body to hold perfectly still. How did she -

"Holding your breath will not change the fact that you have been sighing most dramatically into my ear for the last half hour." The witch's tired complaint had an edge of mockery. In the dim light De Vici could see the faint movement of a cheek, a latent smile too weak to display.

"Perhaps I am simply contemplating your perfections." The assassin brushed her lips along the edge of an exposed shoulder, feeling Morrigan's ribs swell and fall with stifled contentment.

"Tis better done in daylight, I assure you." Now the apostate did smile. Ravenel knew because the woman rolled over in her arms, facing her to study the silent secrets that had so disrupted her sleep.

"Your Chantry friend made me a proposition." De Vici preferred to let the worry out of her lips rather than have it betrayed in her eyes. Morrigan would find out either way.

"Indeed? Here I thought she'd taken vows." The witch's smirk promised that the Divine's sexual proclivities would never take her by surprise. The legends of the Hero of Ferelden must have left out a great many details. All of which seemed to be wound up in a silent, golden amusement that drew Ravenel into the ease of a smile.

"A painful loss for the world, I'm sure. Sadly, her offer to me was of a less pleasurable nature," the wry humor bled away even as she thought of it, "She suggested putting my name on the list of those killed in the attack."

"Contemplating your own death. 'Tis no light matter." The apostate turned somber, instantly understanding the gravity of the subject at hand.

"I have been Lady de Vici for almost fifteen years. It is difficult to imagine being anyone else." Ravenel had always expected her life to go from noble to fugitive. This third option was entirely new and oddly disturbing.

"Just whom do you expect to become?" The witch chuckled and raised a hand to glide over Ravenel's cheek, tracing features that couldn't be changed, "You are more than your title, are you not?"

De Vici caught the woman's hand to hold it in place against her face, savoring the soft caress. In the tender warmth of the fingers against her skin – so different to the strength of their passion – she knew the answer that had been evading her thoughts. Magic, miracle, madness; Morrigan was all three. Even in the pallid glow of moonlight her eyes burned like the flames of Andraste's pyre: the hungry, inevitable, glorious fate that promised to consume Ravenel whole.

"I am only myself. It is all I have ever had to offer." The assassin tried to breathe normally but she couldn't. The air was trapped beneath her throat lest a single sound or movement interrupt the coming reply. Her talk with Divine Victoria, the subtle exchange of her secret, the deadly threat of the Crows; none of it inspired the doubt and worry that gripped her as silence passed for a heartbeat and then two, three . . .

""Tis enough." Morrigan's soft assurance was like pardon from the Maker himself. She drew the Antivan closer, absolving her lips of all sin. Ravenel gladly accepted every caress, the silent succor pouring fresh confidence into her very bones. This was what had filled her mind and chased away all the worries and fears. These mutual confessions of tenderness, desire, affection – this was what shaped a smile even when her whole world fell apart. Wrapping her arms tightly around the beautiful apostate, silently promising that she'd only let go when she was told, Ravenel felt the truth inside herself take shape. This was all that mattered.

* * *

In 2:9 Glory, during a war that would ultimately lead to an Exalted March, elves sacked Val Royeaux. It was the only time in the history of the Empire that their crown jewel was tarnished, threatened with mortal destruction. The Grand Cathedral, already 200 years into its construction, took the lesson to heart. When the doors of the Divine's new home opened 90 years later it was with all the security, facilities and space necessary to be utterly self-sufficient. Though it rose in the heart of the most thriving metropolis in Thedas, the people within the Cathedral dwelled in their own independent world. Orlesians - and Royans especially - gloried in the fact that the seat of the Chantry was part of the Empire, one more gem in their admittedly splendid array. They never paused to consider that the Grand Cathedral intended, was _designed_ , to endure far beyond the city that sprawled around its walls.

Pilgrims seldom saw anything beyond the grand courtyard and main halls. The privileged and blessed were allowed into the audience chamber, they never knew everything else contained on the massive property. Nobles in Val Royeaux paid fortunes to the finest healers and alchemists, trading gold for days, never knowing that elderly sisters and clerics – faithful in their vows of austerity and poverty – were gifted years of life by the skills and medicines of the Cathedral Infirmary. Extensive cellars housed hundreds of casks of wine that would eventually be holy, despite the games Sera and Merrill played amidst the barrels. The University of Orlais was Empress Celene's crowning achievement, a center of learning and knowledge unlike anything else in the world – but Dorian swooned like the heroines of Varric's serials when he saw the Cathedral library.

Now, all these plentiful and advanced resources were at the disposal of the Divine's private guests. Not even royal visitors were allowed to roam freely but signs of Isabela's explorations could be found in suggestive bits of vandalism in almost every room. Hawke's fingers traced a vulgar image carved into the wooden pillar holding a bust of Divine Innocente. She smiled as she felt the familiar shape, memorized from hundreds of times dragging her hand down the banister of her stairs in Kirkwall. The Queen of the Eastern Seas had already been and gone.

This particular hallway exited onto the rear courtyard, the unofficial home base for everyone devoid of pious inclination. Or anyone checking up on them. The sounds of a scathing rebuke reached Hawke as soon as she stepped outside. The disdainful tone was heavy with experienced command and the Champion easily recognized the voice, having been on the receiving end of Aveline's scolding tongue before. The noise was coming from the smithing shed. The forge hadn't been seen by an outsider since Paragon Davri came in to upgrade the equipment but now it was the informal home of Iron Bull and his Chargers. The Inquisitor was leaning against the outer railing, watching the spectacle within.

"Look, we're not soldiers or guards. Armor is to keep us alive, not make it easier to spot us coming." Krem was making a spirited attempt to argue with Aveline, despite his obvious discomfort. When the Fereldan warrior yelled it had a way of hitting something primal at the base of every fighter's spine, forcing them into military posture so stiff it hurt to see.

"You work for the Inquisition. That makes you symbols of order and strength to everyone who sees you walking these halls. If you do not respect your duties and position why should anyone else?" The guard captain's insistent argument managed to marry flattery and reproach, a persuasive combination that twisted any victim into a confusion of pride and guilt. The other Chargers squirmed uncomfortably, eyes begging their Lieutenant to rescue them from their own instinct to surrender.

"We're not the Inquisition. We're the Chargers. Blood stains and tarnish warn enemies what we're capable of." The Vint clung valiantly to his defenses, not looking to any of his fellow mercenaries to help. Iron Bull had trained him to stand his ground in any kind of battle but not even the Qunari could've planned for something like Aveline.

"The only threat your armor conveys," the redhead reached over and dragged a finger through the grime on Krem's breastplate, "Is the danger of contagious disease."

Hawke was worried her sudden chuckle would interrupt the performance but hers wasn't the only sound. Stitches' laughter drowned out her mirth and that of the Inquisitor. Still, nothing was louder than the rumble of amusement that rose from the back of the forge, low and thunderous like the roar of the nearby smithing fire. Iron Bull unfolded from his perch on an anvil, the confident swagger of his approach reminiscent of siege engines rolling into line. He towered over the humans, though Aveline was taller than most and faced him without even a twitch of worry.

"The captain has a point, Krem. I can't tell if that's mud or just the shit that comes out of everyone's mouths around here," the massive Qunari's craggy face contorted into a grin, "Better do what she says."

"Chief -!" The Vint started to object.

"That was an order, Lieutenant. For all of you. Anyone whose armor doesn't pass inspection by the end of the day is going to eat their meals off it for the next month." Bull cut off any argument, one steely eye daring anyone else to speak. The Chargers made varying noises of groaning protest and muttered curses but they all rose and got to work. The only thing worse than polishing months of blood and guts off steel was the threat of having to put it in their mouths.

Aveline scrutinized the Qunari warrior for a moment, arms still crossed as she gauged whether a punchline was about to ruin her victory. Iron Bull's subtle nod was as telling a gesture as a soldier's full salute and the guard captain replied in kind. When she turned to leave she swept past Hawke, allowing the Champion a glimpse of her satisfied – almost smug – smile.

"Bull, I've heard Cassandra and Vivienne try to get your people to clean up dozens of times. You've never once actually made them do it." The Inquisitor folded her arms, studying her friend with the sly gaze of shared secrets. The huge warrior shrugged helplessly.

"What can I say, Boss? You know me and redheads." Iron Bull's appreciative growl followed Aveline's departing figure. As did his gaze.

* * *

Elani looked down at the courtyard below. At nearly three hundred feet away, the people looked like children's toys. The fancy ones that the rich Imperium kids were always losing and then accusing her of stealing. Three hidings later they'd find the bloody thing wedged under a piece of furniture, usually with teeth marks. Did the dog get beaten? Shit no. That purebred sack of spittle was worth the price of five servants. Come to think of it, the damn thing was pretty cute. No one thought twice about the knife-ear kid sneaking the family pet some occasional treats. Not even after he developed chronic, uncontrollable diarrhea.

 _Thinking of runny shit._ Elani carefully moved her hand to avoid a massive pigeon dropping.

"Tell me again, my dear thief, why are we up here?" Zevran's dauntless charms sounded slightly less enthused than usual. The wind whipped about them both, driving his longer hair distractingly into his face. Elani grinned, she probably should've warned him to braid it first.

"It beats being stuck in the audience listening to that dreary song." The thief would've shrugged but her hands and arms were too occupied.

"And yet, when I sit in the Cathedral I have never felt my thoughts turn so urgently towards the Maker as they do now." The Antivan also gazed down. His view was less fixated on the entertaining perspective of their friends below; he was far more intent on the three inches of ornamental stone edging that supported his toes. Three inches that separated them both from three hundred feet of regret before death.

"Come on, Cuddles! Get a move on! There's already 150 sovereigns bet on you!" Varric's voice carried up, bellowing over the gust of wind.

"Bossy fellow, isn't he?" Elani chuckled, searching the steep wall of the Cathedral's center building for her next grip.

Climbing an edifice without her usual tools was more challenging than she'd admit but if it was going to be any building, she couldn't ask for better than this ancient pile of worn stone and ornate embellishment. Those squiggly bits probably symbolized some important part of the Maker's creation or testified to an artisan's years of practiced skill; right now, they made perfect finger and toe holds. Foot then hand, up an inch at a time. She had no idea how long they'd been climbing but she could see the rounded top of the dome bending away from her eyes. Another 100, 150 feet maybe.

"It is fitting, is it not? You conquering the Grand Cathedral and standing above its throne! Perhaps we should have summoned a larger audience." Zevran was a few feet away and never more than inches ahead or behind. Winning the bet was looking dicey, at best.

"Worried that not enough people are here to see you die?" Elani teased, noticing the signs of strain around her competitor's jaw and eyes. If she couldn't beat him on skill alone there were always other ways to gain an edge.

"I am saddened that I alone will witness you straddling the Chantry. I can only imagine what the world would think, should they know Andraste's daughter sat atop the Divine." Zevran's beguiling purr painted a vivid mental image. He'd already noticed that his new playmate's eyes tended to follow the Most Holy with a less than chaste intensity. The most powerful woman in Thedas, tempting as a diamond resting under broken glass. That kind of beauty was guaranteed to hurt. Elani knew herself well enough to know she just wanted the treasure because it was beyond her reach. There was nothing so captivating as the impossible.

"No one tops that woman, Zev," Elani shook her head, laughing as she saw his grip slip and tighten once more, "But if she ever has need of my services, of course I'd be more than happy to help. After all, that's what I'm here for, right?"

"An interesting question," Zevran had to clear his throat when his voice tightened a little too expressively, "Just how _will_ you be servicing the Divine?"

 _Naughty little bugger._ The thief grinned. She couldn't see his face but was certain he wore the same smirk that always danced across his lips just before those skilled fingers pulled a trick on her. But this time they weren't playing cards or naked. She might actually have the advantage for a change.

"I'm going to be a Holy Voyeur." Elani had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her expression serious.

"A wh -," the former Crow hesitated, his thoughts, words and body all momentarily freezing before he regained himself, "That sounds most diverting."

"That's what I thought. I'll get to travel a lot anyway." The younger elf had to admit she was impressed that he recouped so quickly. She'd expected that the deliberately mistaken word would shake him for closer to a minute.

"You will surely see many memorable sights," Zevran stoically continued, licking his lips as if he could taste the lurid ideas rising up under their conversation.

"I hope so," Elani agreed, "She's already arranged for me to meet some others like myself. The more the merrier, right?"

"You will certainly spread the new Divine's reputation." The assassin's voice was heavy with wistful memories of the woman he'd known years before.

"That's not all I'll be spreading." Elani grinned, sighting her last handhold on the smooth curvature leading to the top of the dome.

Envoy, voyeur; easy to make such an innocent mistake. Except, of course, for the total lack of innocence. Victoria's plan had real merit though. It wasn't enough to trot out Andraste's kid for a bunch of pilgrims in Orlais. Elves out riding hallas in the Dales or massacring shems in Ferelden weren't likely to care about Chantry reform. They had to be found, told, convinced that this was a true chance for peace between their peoples. Elani was about as diplomatic as an egg flung at royalty but the Divine seemed to think that was better. Elves wouldn't trust a groomed, savvy, trained ambassador; it would reek of deception. To send an uncivilized, thieving, paranoid and blasphemous representative instead? Every Keeper from here to Seere would know she had to be what she said; truth was always weirder than lies.

"Made it!" Elani slapped her hand onto the top of the Grand Cathedral at the same instant as Zevran.

"It would seem we have tied." The Antivan shook his head, pleased and chagrinned at once.

"Maker take the piss," the blonde groaned and clambered to the top of the flattened dome, shaking out the tension in her wrists and arms.

"And it would also appear that we are not the first," Zevran walked towards a small dark spot on the center of the roof, "Isabela was here before either of us."

"What? How do you-," Elani's mouth dropped as she saw the other elf lift a skimpy piece of black cloth, "What makes you so sure those are hers?"

"You would not ask if you knew our dear captain's taste in undergarments. Truly, would you ever forget something such as this?" Zevran tossed the garment over to her. They didn't even fill her fist.

Spreading them between her fingers she wondered how it was possible that a few inches of fabric could scream sex louder than sheer nudity. Silk, lace and some very clever use of strips in the back that left nothing to the imagination. If these didn't belong to Isabela it was only because she'd gifted them to someone else.

"That woman gets everywhere," Elani muttered. She put the scandalous garment back on display in the center of the roof. At the last moment she also thought to draw a small blade and pierce through the material into dry mortar. The idea of sitting in the Cathedral audience chamber listening to the Chant of Light for the next few days seemed indescribably more tolerable when she imagined the Queen of the Eastern Seas' unmentionables nailed overhead.

"That she does. However, I am quite certain that she came up alone – otherwise we would find sign of the Champion's presence as well." Zevran stole in close behind her, voice low and tempting in her ear.

"And?" The thief leaned back, open to entertaining certain ideas. It was a long climb after all, there was no need to rush back down.

"If we could not be the only ones to conquer the Grand Cathedral we might still be the first to anoint it in the Maker's favorite blessing." Practiced hands slid around her waist. The mouth near her ear began trailing down her cheek, skilled as the fingers undoing the clasp of her belt.

"You still talk too much fancy shit." Elani laughed but turned to meet Zevran's kiss, delighted to find use for all this elevated privacy.

The sound of an explosion interrupted them, drawing attention back towards the distant edge of the Cathedral's grounds. Out in the cemetery she could make out half a dozen spikes of silvery-blue fire licking up into the air. It was becoming a familiar sight and all of them knew what it meant.

"The Seeker needs more lyrium draughts," Zevran chuckled, watching remote dots scramble to extinguish the searing flames.

"I'm sure your friends can handle it." Elani caught his cheek and dragged him back into the kiss. An expert twist of her arms tossed Zevran down, pinning him to the top of Thedas' most holy building. What better place for a bit of sin?

* * *

Solace dropped to her knees, trembling from head to foot as the power abruptly shut off and left her utterly spent, excruciatingly hollow. She fisted her fingers in the earth, unconsciously digging to make her own grave. They'd been at this for days and the only thing she wanted more than success was an end. Hundreds of bottles of lyrium led to acres of scorch marks; first in the Cathedral courtyard, then further past the stables and now finally here in the cemetery. She couldn't remember what anything smelled like anymore, or get the taste of metallic pain out of her mouth.

"Mother-sucking son of a whore!" The mage gave vent to her rage, too tired to yell but too angry for breath.

Magic had never been this hard. The Fade was like a small river she could dip her hands into and change its flow. Even as a child she'd found it so easy to master spells and reshape reality, feeling the touch of Grace's hands guiding her own, whispering to her secrets from beyond the Veil. This power was entirely different. It was a roaring waterfall, so massive it was terrifying. To touch it meant getting instantly swept away. Every time she pulled back out she felt like she'd been dragged by a demon to the Black City and back again.

"You only blew up half this time." Cassandra's familiar boots appeared in her line of vision, apparently pleased with the improvement. The Seeker's gauntleted hand reached down for her.

"Maker's piss! I'm just too tired to get them all!" Solace batted away the offered help. That was the fifth round of practice this morning alone. The fourth had felt like it opened tears between her flesh and soul, now the pain ached from tooth to toenail.

"You are improving, Solace. It is possible to get control." The Nevarran knelt beside her, resting the rejected hand on her shoulder. Looking into the warrior's face she could see the lines around her mouth and brow, a hard set visage of frustration held firmly in check. The disappointed irritation in the twitching muscles of her cheeks contrasted with the patient concern of her eyes, bringing out the warm gold buried in hazel.

"I can't. I've never had to do anything as hard as this." The blonde wanted to cry. Her stinging pride, exhausted mind, destroyed body – every part of her was begging for permission to give up.

"Which is all the more reason to finally learn," the less familiar voice pulled Solace's eyes to the edge of the cemetery, the Warden walking towards them, "Power should never come easily."

"She is correct. Those who achieve power without effort are too likely to abuse it," Cassandra agreed, nodding gratefully to the Hero for her welcome support.

"I can't abuse something I don't even know how to use." Solace felt bile rise as she argued, the familiarity of a fight sending sparks back along her worn nerves. A good clash of wills, that might get her blood to feel like something other than sluggish mud in her veins.

"These graves would suggest otherwise." Warden Amell gestured to the seemingly random patches of charred ground. Each one marked where the body of a Templar lay – until recently – resting in peace. Even Cassandra had been surprised to realize how long lyrium could last in the bones. Not half as surprised as Solace, however, when the first grave had ignited beneath her feet. It was a small comfort that the magical fire couldn't harm herself or the Seeker.

"I'd apologize but they were probably all bastards." Solace scowled at the desecrated burials, some still steaming. It felt good to hate something other than herself. Torching Templars in their graves was a tempting incentive to truly learn this power, to harness it the way she'd once controlled magic.

"Vivienne told me you once refused to speak for three weeks until you mastered a spell. Where is that discipline now?" Cassandra rose, extending her hand again. The blonde regarded the offer, plumbing the depths of her will to see what reserves were left. Another try wouldn't kill her. Perhaps she just had to keep going until it finally did.

"Is that a clever way of saying you want me to stop blaspheming?" Solace accept the hand, rising to her feet and steeling her balance against the wave of vertigo that followed.

"That would be an added benefit, yes." The Seeker's usual glower softened momentarily, the only sign of humor her strict training would allow right now. She gathered the remaining lyrium draughts - the ones spared from the last burst of exasperated power – and repositioned them in a line. Four bottles, each spaced nearly twenty feet apart. When she'd wielded magic she could aim lightning to strike a single leaf on a fully bloomed tree, now she was being taught like an archer with her first target.

"Wait," Warden Amell interrupted before Cassandra could give a command, "Try with this."

Solace's mouth dropped open when the Hero unstrapped her staff and tossed it over. The weight alone of the weapon was shocking when it hit her palms. It had been years since she held such a tool, the comforting familiarity instantly turning it into an extension of her arm.

"Seekers do not use staves," Seeker Pentaghast protested. The blonde barely heard her, too intent on studying the marvelous piece of craftsmanship.

"Seekers were never mages," Solona easily countered, encouraging the younger woman with a nod of permission.

Solace ran her hands over the length of the weapon, feeling the ornate carvings as well as the hundreds of nicks and scratches from battle. It had obviously suffered years of wear, perhaps some of the greatest battles the Hero had faced. Was this the staff that struck down an archdemon and ended the Blight on Ferelden? The tickle of excitement fed along her arms, creeping out of her fingers and into the metal. She'd seen the Warden use the weapon in the throne room battle; the focus at its tip had glowed red, matching the writhing color of the volcanic aurum from which it was made.

Now, however, the focus began to glow slivery blue as the staff thrummed in time with her speeding pulse. She dragged her eyes off the gleaming weapon, spying the farthest bottle of lyrium potion. If she started with the one at the end of the line there was a chance her power would drain before consuming them all.

"Maker take you," Solace whispered beneath her breath, taking final aim and closing her eyes. She felt power arc out of herself and into the staff, harnessed into a single bolt. The roaring tide rushed over her again, threatening to pull her under, to drag every last ounce of strength she had out into the wake of the open channel. She clenched her fingers tighter and it felt as if they were melting into the metal, sucking power from her skin. One twist of her wrist, the staff spinning in her grip and suddenly the weapon was cut off from the source of raw energy.

She squinted an eye open, certain she'd incinerated all the targets once more but amazed to find only one plume of iridescent smoke rising lazily into the sky. The other three draughts were untouched. The abruptly severed power still bubbled and roiled inside of her, easily within reach but not the thunderous roar that had so promised to rip her apart. Solace felt the only muscles in her face that she hadn't used for days begin to tighten, to pull her mouth into a smile, then a grin. Her laughing relief rose above the still echoing noise of the explosion and the cooling pops of shattered glass.

She twirled the staff, watching the beautiful circle its silver light carved in the air. She spun and focused again, eyes open to watch the glory of a single lyrium potion consuming itself in blue flame. Once more - this time with only one hand - she switched her grip and let loose, relishing the tiny, cracking sound of glass bursting under impossible heat. A final test, she turned to the last bottle, leveled her aim and . . . .nothing.

"I can control it," Solace breathed in wonder, marveling as the sole remaining draught survived untouched from the destruction that had erased its fellows. She stared at the weapon in her hands, the silver light slowly fading as her heart calmed, power ebbing away to fold back into a corner of herself until it was summoned.

"See? Just needed focus." The Warden shot a wink to Cassandra, sharing a private joke.

"This is – that was just -," the blonde struggled for words as she approached the Hero to return her staff, "Thank you."

"Keep it. I understand yours is still in storage in Montsimmard." Solona's gentle admonition was firm with the knowledge of facts. Tranquil didn't need staves so the weapons were confiscated. Sometimes they were handed off to other apprentices, tainted with the misery and weakness of a failed mage. Most often they were locked up, stored to be destroyed or broken down for useful parts. Stripping a mage of their weapon was like taking part of their body.

"No, this one is too good. It must have cost a fortune," Solace protested, trying once more to push the staff into the hands of its rightful owner.

"Only a darkspawn bastard's life," the Warden laughed, "I have a dozen of the things. I prefer to stick to the one Wade made me from the archdemon's bones."

"That one is quite marvelous. A pity the Inquisitor could not persuade him to join us at Skyhold," Cassandra readily agreed.

"I think Dagna and Harritt might find him a little too unorthodox. He does tend to upset people when he insists on smelting in nothing but an apron." Solona waved off any suggestion that the crazed, perfectionist smith didn't belong exactly where he was.

"Keep the staff, Solace," the Seeker turned back to the somewhat befuddled mage, "You will need it. And we aren't done training yet."

"But I did it! I blew up what I wanted to blow up and stopped when I was done!" The blonde groaned protest. Was such a sweet victory truly going to be so short lived?

"That was only the beginning. There is far more to being a Seeker. You must be capable of much more when the time comes for you to represent our Order." Cassandra's commanding tone wasn't unkind, her hands resting on the mage's shoulders heavy but full of strength offered in support.

"About that," the Warden interrupted the exchange of encouragement, eyes glittering with schemes, "Leliana had an idea."


	37. Act IX:iii Revelation

When hundreds of thousands of voices sing together there is a natural discord. Words out of time, notes flat, voices too weak or too overwhelming. Yet, it is still beautiful. The passion of every singer unites with the whole, creating a harmony that erases any individual imperfections. Everyone was flawed but when they came together like this - exulting in the glories of faith and hope - they were complete. Their unity made perfection.

Leliana stood just behind the curtains of her balcony, watching the crowd and listening to the song of the faithful rising to the Maker Himself. The Chant of Light finished yesterday, her official enthronement complete the moment the last note rang out and she took her seat. Now the faithful sang their joy, the hymns of triumph swelling to fill the courtyard like a victory cry. What had been a few lone voices spread like infectious laughter until everyone, regardless of language or skill, had joined the throng. As a bard she knew the power of music. In the Chantry she found herself reborn with the words of Andraste's songs. Yet she had never been so moved by a single melody. The sheer power of conviction threatened to bring all of the Empire to its knees, to ring until the stones of the Grand Cathedral itself crumbled before their faith. They sang to the Maker, to His Prophet and now, to her representative on this side of the Veil. They sang to Divine Victoria.

"Your audience is anxious for your address, Most Holy." The reminder gently drew her away from the humbling spectacle. She glanced gratefully to the servant, one bold enough to speak when all the sisters and initiates were too shy to point out the obvious.

This particular woman had served Justinia V and Beatrix before her. She undoubtedly remembered Leliana as the Left Hand, appearing and disappearing as swiftly as shadow in the service of the Divine. Now she wore the mantle of their mistress. It could not only be Leliana's imagination that saw a flare of pride in the older woman's eye as it fell across the ceremonial robes. It was no small thing, a new Divine chosen from the ranks of the laity. She knew the people, the servants, the pilgrims and faithful. She knew the politics of the priesthood but had never been tainted by its envies. She was never a cleric or Mother or even a sister of vows. She was simply a woman, born of a servant, elevated to the highest position in the Chantry. In a way not even Dorothea could have managed, Leliana had the ability to draw on the faith of all. She had lived among them, walked their paths, fought their battles. Now she had the power to be their voice.

"It is a presumption at best! An outright insult to the blood of those fallen in these atrocities!"

Perhaps not that voice. The new Divine sighed, recognizing the angered and domineering tones of the Grand Cleric of Cumberland. The argument was muffled by the doors of her chamber, the first percolations of a promising feud.

"Do not speak for the dead, Your Grace. They have bought their peace." Mother Giselle could wield patience like a weapon. Her will was iron, she had only to wait for every obstacle to crumble or bend before her. Her artful touch had guided the Inquisition through crucial moments; Chantry officials were soft clay compared to shaping an army of faith.

"To use one of the traitors! When so many faithful are ready to offer themselves? They have earned their rank, the right to stand alongside the Divine -," The Grand Cleric's argument was cut short when the chamber doors swung open.

"None of us stand where we do by right but by the Maker's grace." Leliana chastised, quickly assessing the scene that lay before her. Giselle and the Grand Cleric were going head to head but behind them lay the actual source of conflict. Warden Amell was leaning against the corridor wall, arms crossed, watching the holy women engage in the religious equivalent of mud wrestling.

"Your Perfection, an honor guard is assembled, ready to offer escort. To employ the protections of a mage," the Grand Cleric of Cumberland had a particularly vitriolic way of spitting the word, "It would only incite pain and fury from those scarred by the war."

"She is the Hero of the Blight, defeater of an archdemon. The Maker himself would not find fault with the mage that slayed a fallen god." Giselle reminded the sour woman. Those who had not been near Ferelden during the Fifth Blight somehow managed to minimize or even forget who won that victory, or how vital it truly was.

Leliana looked past the bickering women, meeting Solona's gaze. She found a helpless quirk of amusement lifting the Warden's brow, taking in the scene like it was elaborately staged theatre. It was the same sarcastic pleasure she'd found in watching the nobles of the Landsmeet try to jockey a national disaster into personal gain. No matter how the Hero tried to simply live and love and be left alone, she was hopelessly embroiled in conflict at every turn.

With the training of a bard Leliana kept her expression perfectly in check. Irritated scowls and angry frowns weren't befitting on a day so sacred and joyous. She knew the Grand Cleric's objection was shared by others; the squawking complaints of authorities ignored, opinions not consulted. Seven years of Justinia V's unorthodox approach to governing the faithful hadn't been enough to break the priesthood's recalcitrant habits. How foolish that there were vows about chastity and poverty when the real threats were pride and control.

"She will not be escorting me for protection," the Divine held up a hand, a single gesture ending the fight, "She is a loyal ally. Too many times the Chantry has forgotten those who helped it rise. I will not make that mistake."

"Very wise." Mother Giselle nodded her approval and stepped back.

"Very well." The Grand Cleric wasn't so magnanimous in her surrender but also stood aside, accepting the implicit command. The Most Holy now had an uninterrupted view of the smirking Hero.

"At your service, Your Perfection." The Warden straightened off the wall and executed a gallant bow. The warmth of the title on her lips turned it into an endearment, reverence twined with more intimate affection. How many times had that word been on her tongue as she traced the scars on Leliana's skin?

"We are ready." The redhead kept her mouth from betraying the pleasure of her recollection. Solona gestured for the mothers and clerics to lead the way, falling into pace alongside the former spymaster as they followed the procession.

"You are not subtle, you know?" Leliana quietly chastised the mage as they walked, finally allowing a touch of the smile that had been aching in her lips from the moment she stepped out of her chamber.

"That is your area of expertise, Most Holy, as you abundantly proved last night." The Hero was always happy to defer to her love's manipulative acumen.

"It was delightful, was it not? Being in the heart of the Game once more." Divine Victoria's musical laugh rose and fell with the same soft undulations as her accent. Several of the holy women walking in front of her cringed, apparently convinced such a sound defiled the solemn occasion.

"Only you would think of a pit of vipers as delightful, Leliana." The Warden imagined she could still feel the scrape of sharp eyes and hidden daggers. There were more fangs in a roomful of politicians than a dragon's nest.

The Eve of the Divine was traditionally an occasion for aristocrats, ambassadors, clerics and heralds to gain some leverage in the new holy reign. It was a ripe opportunity to find clues, hint at secrets or expose some folly that would influence the Chantry's future. It was the only night when the Grand Game was played within holy walls. None of the guests had been prepared for Divine Victoria's mastery of their art.

A lord of Val Foret broke into heavy sweat when Victoria expressed her condolences for the passing of his paternal uncle. The tragedy happened to have granted him sole inheritance of a massive estate. Caught up in a spiritual fervor he pledged a quarter of his lands to Chantry contribution, a charity considerable enough to divert the more obvious suspicions.

The young duchess of Lydes, who wore indulgently ornate shoes, was spontaneously moved to announce she would make a barefoot pilgrimage to Valence. This after the Divine had simply commented on her good fortune to carry her pregnancy so lightly. It did not have to be mentioned that the Duke had been fighting in the Dales for the past seven months.

Nevarra's ambassador was stunned to find the new Divine well-versed on the comparative values of cloth. A single comment praising the workmanship of his nation promised the price would double by morning. The gratitude alone guaranteed that no Chantry would pay coin for their vestments for at least a year to come.

It would have seemed tedious to anyone who didn't enjoy the Game – Seeker Pentaghast in particular had appeared ready to take dying of boredom to an entirely new, homicidal level – but each small introduction, any exchange of pleasantries, even the careful selection of which dignitary to greet first; all of it was a calculated play in the grander strategy. All too soon guests surrendered hope of gaining advantage and struggled only to keep up with the shifting political winds.

"It is a pleasure to have a hand in shaping the future of our people. You felt the same when it came to fighting darkspawn and demons, no?" Leliana's shoulder barely brushed against Solona, teasing at the memories from what felt like another life.

"At least I always knew where my hands had been," the Warden managed to hold a look of disgust until the other woman laughed again, "Just promise me you'll wash yours regularly."

"Cleansed of every sin and vice. As you know." The rogue's eyes danced over her companion, sweeping from head to toe with a glint of mischief.

"And yet still so very cruel," the Hero sighed, disappointment mingling with mockery, "Here's where I have to leave."

Leliana looked up, realizing they'd reached the doors leading to the throne room. From there the procession would pass through the elite guests and visitors first before heading to the grand entrance and the public beyond. An instinct, selfish and impulsive, longed to keep the Warden at her side; to let the dignitaries, the Chantry, the world gathered at her feet see exactly who she was and what mattered most. Solona would always be the most important piece of her life. Which was precisely why she drove that childish desire away. The Hero of Ferelden was still a mage and a Grey Warden. She did not need to be any larger a target.

"Stay where I can see you?" The Divine lifted one brow, a playful reminder that would have fooled anyone else.

"No running off, I promise." Warden Amell pressed her hand once, her tone and smile confirming that she understood. They could not stand together before the Chantry but so long as Leliana could find her beloved's eyes in the sea of faces, she would feel close.

The Divine felt a cool touch in her palm after the Hero had walked away. She opened her hand to find Solona had left a small gift. It brought an ache like tears to her eye despite the happiness it unfurled beneath her ribs. The doors to the Divine's audience chamber swung open, revealing hundreds of wealthy and powerful dignitaries, all with their heads bowed. None of them saw the perfection of her smile as she gently wrapped both hands around the petals of a white rose.

* * *

"I'm serious, Varric, I've seen less bootlicking in brothel fetish rooms!" Inquisitor Trevelyan could tell the dwarf wanted to tease her for knowing such things but he was still too busy laughing, "Of course, it's Val Royeaux so it wasn't actually boots as much as jewel-encrusted high heels. On the men."

"I'm supposed to believe you were busy looking at everyone's shoes?" Varric nailed Eve with a skeptical smirk.

"Naturally I had to be checking for weapons too," the Inquisitor artfully slid around his assumption without denying it, "And Orlesian clothing is so ornate it takes a lot of attention to spot dangers."

"Uh-huh. So now 'wardrobe malfunction' is on the list of potential threats?" His rough chuckle was infectious.

"In the Game? Deadly, I assure you," Trevelyan sniffed, imitating the pompous and bored disdain of Orlesian courtiers. She'd learned long ago that laughing at the ridiculous pageantry was the only way to endure its constant, maddening hypocrisy.

Her family had always been obsessed with politics and intrigue, a pastime that contributed greatly to her youth's aggressive pursuit of misbehavior. She couldn't be a pawn if she got disowned. Unfortunately, she hadn't counted on her mother being patient, clever or right. The damned woman - _Sorry, mother –_ was probably giggling herself to sleep every night, thinking of her youngest problem child having to don formal attire and charm entire kingdoms into playing nice.

"Getting to watch a bunch of nobles try to stab backs and cover their asses at the same time, sounds like a fun night." Varric leaned against a marble pillar like he was relaxing at a bar counter rather than waiting in the vestibule of the Grand Cathedral's front entrance.

"I'm just amazed no one ever sprains a shoulder. From what I hear, your night wasn't too boring either." Eve swept her eyes over the gathered allies, mentally checking off who had arrived and who was still coming.

It was easy enough to identify the companions that were slated for public appearance; the gleam of so much armor was blinding. The fighters chosen for Leliana's honor guard weren't the only men and women who deserved the privilege but everyone had readily agreed: they were the only ones who wouldn't cause an uproar. The others wouldn't be visible to the crowds in the courtyard but their presence lent moral support. Trevelyan looked around once more – 'moral' probably wasn't the right word for it.

"I swear, Worshipfulness, I was playing Wicked Grace with Tiny and the Chargers." Varric instantly defended himself.

"Hmm, alibied with a lesser crime," Trevelyan pursed her lips to control her smile, "I don't think Isabela and Hawke could have done it alone. Someone had to have distracted Aveline at the very least."

The dwarf was a master bluffer and bullshitter. But he was also still a rogue and there could be no hiding the delighted pride glittering in his eyes. Kirkwall's guard captain hadn't let Isabela out of her sight; not since the pirate slipped into her quarters and left a servant tied naked to her bed. Getting Aveline to take her eyes off the wicked sailor for more than three seconds had to have been a carefully orchestrated act of genius.

"I'd be more curious about where Rivaini managed to find all those accessories. Here I thought we were in some kind of holy place." Varric's smug grin refused to confess his part in the shocking prank that had greeted the Cathedral's occupants at dawn.

Shackles, chains and blindfolds were all very common motifs in Chantry art. Sculptures of Andraste often featured any or all of the above. They just weren't supposed to be lined in fur or made of black leather and silk. Absolutely none of them should've had gags. It was fortunate that the majority of Leliana's honored guests tended to sleep late. Only Trevelyan and her friends enjoyed the spectacle of dozens of statues of Andraste adorned like the darker whores from Belle Marche. In a riot of laughter and profanity there was an absolute, unspoken consensus: only Isabela.

"I think _anyone_ involved in that stunt," Eve's accusatory glance was mild at best, "Should count themselves lucky that Cassandra has spent the morning praying and getting ready for the address. I'm still not sure how to tell her about it."

"Shit, promise you'll keep her sword out of reach and I'll tell her myself. Can't wait to see the look on her face!" The dwarf took a truly perverse pleasure in risking death at the Seeker's hands every chance he got.

"You know she still can't tell when you're lying to her. She'd probably think you made the whole thing up." The Inquisitor didn't understand how a woman with Cassandra's training, experience and intellect had so much trouble detecting bullshit. It had to be the same skill that made Varric's trashy serials so entertaining – everything was simply more interesting when you believed him.

"How about we test that out?" The storyteller tilted his chin to indicate activity behind Trevelyan.

She turned to spot the Seeker approaching them across the grand entry. For a second Eve's brain insisted it wasn't Cassandra. She'd never seen this armor before. Rather, she had, but then it was soiled in blood and dishonor on the corpse of an enemy. It was the regalia of the High Seeker. She wore the official armor of her full status and it was a stunning sight. Andraste herself couldn't cut a more inspiring figure than the warrior striding so easily towards them. The dignity of royalty, the power of armies, polished symbols of faith and truth catching every stray beam of light in the room and magnifying it back like she was wreathed in the Maker's own glory.

"Careful, Inquisitorship, you drool anymore and your armor's going to rust," Varric chortled, thumping a knuckle on Trevelyan's plate.

"Right." Eve managed to mutter a reply, clicking her mouth shut but unable to pull her eyes off the Seeker.

This was ridiculous. She saw Cassandra all the time. She saw her just a few hours ago – naked! How was it possible to be held so completely spellbound? Every day Eve saw the warrior, the woman, friend, lover, follower, guide – she was complex and fascinating as the facets of a cut jewel. She'd studied every edge of her, each spark and angle of light. When was the last time she simply looked at her whole?

The Seeker always knew when Trevelyan's eyes were on her. What had once felt forbidden and electrifying grew familiar, comforting. Eve could often see the tight line of Cassandra's shoulders relax when she spotted her across the room, back turned but still instinctively aware of her love's attention. She must have felt the intensified scrutiny of the Inquisitor's eyes trying to absorb all of her at once. Her perfect poise didn't slip but when she met the gaze a rush of color crept up her cheeks, visible even at this distance.

"You know, you could just drop to one knee and ask her to marry you. It would probably make less of a scene," Varric chimed in, trying to break the magnetic tension that was strung between the two women tighter than Bianca's wires.

"Varric," the Inquisitor felt an irresistible smile creep onto her lips, "When I'm ready to propose I guarantee: you'll be the last to know."

"Don't be so sure, Inquisitor." The dwarf laughed, slapping the warrior's back to propel her forward. Eve willingly yielded to the shove, moving to meet the Seeker halfway across the entry. The fraction of her mind that wasn't cataloguing everything perfect about the woman in front of her caught and filed the last comment that Varric muttered beneath his breath. She'd said 'when' not 'if.'

* * *

When the towering doors of the Grand Cathedral swept open on the courtyard a bright glare washed out. Those closest to the entry instinctively covered their faces, terrified that they would be consumed in the Maker's Light. Gradually, squinting through fingers and tears, fears were put to rest. The brightness was nothing so divine. High morning sun gleamed off polished armor, dazzling eyes even at the far edges of the crowd.

The first figure coalesced into the shape of the Herald of Andraste, swathed in the armaments of the Inquisition. Behind her, on either side, were the striking forms of the Champions of Orlais and Kirkwall. Following this impressive trio was an entire vee formation of proven fighters, honored protectors of the Divine. Commander Rutherford, Captain Vallen, Sers Blackwall and Michel; they fanned out as they proceeded down the steps, deftly moving the crowd back and creating an open dais for the Divine's arrival.

Anticipation spread quiet across the crowd, swallowing all sound as the breathless audience awaited their first glimpse of Divine Victoria. If she didn't come out soon then half her followers were going to pass out. The vacuum of silence exploded into a cacophony of cheers the instant white robes appeared on the threshold.

Leliana glided to the edge of the steps, a modest smile appreciating the loud adorations. She waited patiently for the noise to subside, using the time to look out over the massive gathering. Dotted throughout the audience were pointed ears, small gaps in the rows that had to be dwarves, towers of muscle and horn that were given an extremely wide berth. Rumors of the new Divine's progressive leanings were already trickling across Thedas. Unification was spat like a curse in the drawing rooms of ancient nobility, whispered with hope in alienages and painstakingly spelled over and over again in taverns. Opinions had already begun to change. On passing through the throne room full of dignitaries, she was pleased to note that everyone had elected to wear a piece of green. Whether it was a full satin gown or merely a choice emerald ring, the players of the Game had sensed the wind shifting towards the Dales.

There was also a glaring absence in the audience, one that was not all that surprising. No staves. No Circle robes. Yet the mages were here, she was certain of it. They would not make themselves known until they knew her intent. She would see them, one by one, when her words struck home and filled them either with joy or rage.

Her attention finally fell on Solona's familiar face gazing up from the front of masses. That ubiquitous sparkle of amusement was still glittering in her eyes.

' _Any time now_ ,' the Warden mouthed, hands pressed tightly over her ears to block out the deafening sound. She had a woeful lack of appreciation for dramatic timing.

"Children of the Maker," Leliana's voice, usually soft as a caress even in anger, rang out now. Without a trace of force or strain her words silenced the applause and carried clear to the far end of the courtyard, luring each ear to unconsciously lean closer.

"Divine Justinia V believed that all were children of the Maker, deserving of her love. That Most Holy woman was an inspiration. She was my mentor, my redeemer, my friend," for the briefest moment there was a very real threat of emotion cutting her voice, "We will feel the pain of her death for years to come, the loss of all she could have been. But I will not suffer to lose her _and_ the work she did!"

Leliana watched the passion of her promise ignite sparks of will in all the eyes she could see. Her followers drew themselves up, standing straighter, loyalty to the martyred Divine rallying them to her command. If she declared war on Tevinter in the name of Justinia, she did not doubt they would take up weapons right on the spot. Perhaps that was even what they were expecting, a spiritual army in search of battle. How little they knew Dorothea's true teaching.

"She had a vision of peace for all in the Chantry, a place for everyone in the will of the Maker. For families to no longer weep when their sons and daughters were torn away by fear. For an end to the abuses and injustices that are heaped on the innocent by fault of their birth. To see us measured by our faith, not our form!"

* * *

"How do you think it's going?" Elani yanked at the tight leather collar around her neck, trying to gain enough space to swallow the knot in her throat. Standing in the shadows beyond the entry doors completely blocked all sight of the oratory's effect.

"They're trying figure out what she means so they can decide whether or not to cheer." Solace had one ear tilted as close as possible to the sound of Leliana's speech and the murmuring responses that rippled through the crowd. The vaulted ceiling and stone walls created a doubled echo, catching rebounded words and flinging them back again so that it was difficult to understand precisely what was being said. The new Divine was a practiced speaker, making certain her timing and rhythms either held the audience in silent suspense or quickly overwhelmed any conflicting thought. It was like listening to the delicate grace and powerful manipulations of an entire orchestra.

Elani could only make out occasional phrases, listening desperately for their cue.

_"My thanks to Justinia is to fulfill her vision. . . .restore Andraste's legacy to our own . . .To have all the Maker's family finally united as one . . ."_

"You're fidgeting," Solace's observation was equal parts mockery and surprise.

"It's this damn armor, how does anyone wear this much metal?" The elf kept rolling her shoulders, stretching her arms, trying to find any position that would alleviate the sensation that she'd been trapped in a very snug iron box. A good thief could do the job naked if need be, she'd proven that several times. All the metal plates and fasteners destroyed her flexibility. It had taken an entire day of practice just to get used to walking in the stuff; there was no way she'd be able to run if she had to. Not that she anticipated having to. If the crowd outside turned then she'd be dead before her first three steps, with or without this reproduction of Andraste's battle gear covering her ass.

"You got off light. Try putting all of that on and then spend the afternoon sparring the Inquisitor." The mage was better at hiding her discomfort. She was good at hiding a lot of things. They'd both had to attend the Eve of the Divine as honored guests and the elf had been amazed to see how easily Solace slid into the atmosphere. She wandered among the nobles, charming and mystifying in turns as the courtiers tried to figure out who she was. The suspicions ranged from a new Chantry historian to an exiled princess. They were both under strict orders not to identify themselves.

Actually, Elani had several additional orders beyond that. She wasn't allowed to touch anyone, since Leliana knew sticky fingers when she saw them. She couldn't stray from the Divine's side; with the resented exception of Marquise Briala elves still weren't welcome at such festivities. Most importantly, she was absolutely not – under any circumstances – to speak. The handful of times she felt a frustrated obscenity curling on her tongue she'd catch twin sapphire daggers freezing her in place and killing the temptation. She didn't have Solace's Circle education or Orlesian eloquence but her silence made her a tantalizing mystery to all the attendees. Divine Victoria was right, once again; being quiet made you smart and being smart kept you quiet.

"You're sure this is going to work?" Elani peeked through the crack of the door jamb. Way more than a hundred thousand people out there and probably less than 30 feet away. There were a staggering number of ways this could all get bollixed.

"I'm sure. I won't get you eaten by a demon if you don't blow us up." Solace imitated the elf's usual cocky grin. The thief opened her mouth to retort but Leliana's voice broke in, more pronounced than before.

_"See, now, the Chantry that Divine Justinia gave her life to make possible!"_

"That's the cue, go, go!" The mage shoved Elani towards the doors.

* * *

_Were you there?_

The question was like a tidal wave swallowing the world after an ocean holds its breath.

_The day the Divine declared that the Seekers of Truth were reborn from Tranquil? When she brought out the mage dressed in armor, staff in hand, the blazing eye of the Order already stamped on her breastplate. Did you hear the mages crying? Did you see?_

_Were you there?_

_On that first day, when she announced that the Prophet's legacy to the world was more than history and song; did you tremble as she declared that the very blood of Andraste would once more beat within the heart of the Chantry? Were you among the thousands that gasped and staggered at the sight of an elf? Could you feel the murmurs and shock passing like wind through the crowd, swaying back and forth in confusion?_

_Did you duck or scream in fear when the sky exploded into a thousand points of light, raining color across the Cathedral? When fireworks that should only have been visible at night illuminated the courtyard and hid the sun? Did you laugh? Did you go silent?_

_When the smoke filling the sky began to billow and move like fluttering robes, undulating with the approach of a shadow – did you hold still? Did you see? In the air above the Divine, the figure taking shape out of the wisps and tendrils of fog, invisible but brilliant at the same time. Could you see the white of her dress flowing with the wind, hair a storm of sunrays and fire? The way she lifted her hands, spreading benediction over the Divine and her chosen, arms reaching ever further, wide enough to welcome all the army of the faithful into the warmth and love of her embrace. Did you drop to your knees?_

_You didn't? Then you weren't there._


	38. Act IX: iv Something to Celebrate

The Sunburst Throne was surprisingly plush. The velvet cushion was re-stuffed regularly so that no Divine backside was ever sore. A necessity, given that the Most Holy spent so much of her life on that throne that each could've worn a groove into stone. Leliana had thought the seat of her station would feel more . . . severe; cramped at the very least, if not hard and cold. Those were the hallmarks of power, were they not? She had often watched the Inquisitor slouch in her Judgement Seat, trying to give the illusion of ease when it was all too clear that she was discomfited by the chair and its burdens alike. She struggled with that responsibility but carried it out nonetheless, with mercy and cunning but mostly humor. It inspired even greater loyalty and affection in her followers. Great power should not rest too comfortably.

Divine Victoria settled into the throne, contemplating the paradox of the most powerful seat in all southern Thedas being as soft and yielding as fine feathers. Human authority was strict and unforgiving, perhaps the Sunburst Throne needed to remind its occupant that the Maker's way was better.

"You're going to be sitting in that thing for the rest of your life, don't you want to stretch your legs a bit first?" The Warden leaned against one side of the massive seat, sweeping her eyes across the audience chamber.

"In this room I must always be the Divine, even when it is only filled with friends." Leliana gave a simple shake of her head, the corner of her mouth lifted in pleasure despite resignation.

All of Val Royeaux was bathed in light and noise this night. Loud revelries, brewing riots, religious arguments and political panic spread from one edge of the capital to the other; only the Grand Cathedral nestled in the middle in utter calm. Amidst all the chaos and festivity that accompanied any major shift in the Game, no one would be able to hear the sounds of laughter and life coming from the Divine's throne room.

They'd cleared all the benches. From here on anyone wishing to stand before the Divine would in fact, have to stand. Tables along the far wall were groaning with Orlesian dainties and drinks, a banquet of pastries, canapes and sweets to rival what had been offered the nobles on the Eve of the Divine. Except tonight no one was worried about appearances, propriety or even table manners. Leliana allowed herself a laughing sigh as she spotted shoes poking out from underneath one of the tablecloths. Rather, one pair of shoes and ten petite, curling toes. Sera and Merrill undoubtedly, enjoying the makeshift privacy along with a few bottles of wine and the missing tray of chocolates. She'd specifically told the serving staff not to use any of the good silver tonight.

This room had probably never hosted such a bizarre and irreverent collection of guests yet the new Divine couldn't help but feel it was right. The Chantry was not meant to be the domain of pious spinsters and wealthy aristocrats alone. Andraste proclaimed the need for righteousness, faith and repentance but she also preached a message of redemption, love and tolerance (except for Tevinter magisters, of course). Surely, had the Prophet triumphed in Minrathous rather than being betrayed, she would have thrown a celebration such as this for all the allies that stood at her side. Perhaps with less frequent bouts of stifled blasphemy.

A faint sizzling noise caught her attention and Leliana spotted Elani and Rocky in a corner, arguing over whose fault it was that one of the fireworks nearly hit the southern tower. Apparently the only way to settle the matter was with a miniature reenactment of their pyrotechnics and Aveline barely had time to grab the flare from Rocky and throw it out a window before it exploded. The bright blue and purple of Qunari powder combined with Rocky's own special ingredients created a cornea-searing bloom of color before vanishing once more. The two explosive enthusiasts might have protested but a glare from the guard captain sent them back to their own arguments. At least with each other there was a chance of winning.

Movement caught Leliana's eye and wry humor filled her smile. She knew that sooner or later Josephine would come.

"You know you do not have to remain by my side, yes? Particularly not when I am about to be chastised." The Divine shifted Solona's focus to the approaching ambassador.

"There's nowhere I'd rather be," the Warden refused escape, then smiled, "Beside, I want to see this. I imagine it's rather like getting mauled by an adorable puppy."

"Fereldans. Always with dogs on the mind." Leliana laughed but swiftly stilled her expression as Josephine reached them. Her ubiquitous note board was absent for a change but her eyes promised she'd been deluged in paperwork the moment the day's ceremony ended.

"You took an incredible risk today, Leliana," the ambassador scolded, concern softening the complaint.

"Andrasteans need signs, Josie. What the people saw today will make its way across Thedas much faster than any complaint over reforms." The Divine knew the power of stories. Rumor and gossip turned facts into mysteries, mortals into legends. Like Varric, she understood that the only way to make people believe was to let them fill in the gaps for themselves. Too many details spoil the wonder.

"Fast indeed!" Josephine's chuckle could almost have been sarcastic if she were not so polite, "Half of Orlais has already heard that you summoned a demon to the Grand Cathedral."

"The truth will catch up." Leliana was unperturbed. In a lifetime of deceptions and secrets she had learned that truth could never be buried. It turned up in forgotten documents, lost witnesses, deathbed confessions, vindictive enemies; nothing stayed hidden forever and the more impossible the truth, the faster it spread.

"Which is what? Was it all a trick? Was it a spirit, an illusion, Andraste herself? There will be many questions." The Antivan's brow was slightly lined, already phrasing official statements in her mind.

"It wasn't a trick or a demon. Beyond that, let them think what they will. People were moved today, they believe as never before. They have hope again, yes? That is what will spread." Leliana's gaze wandered to the lights of the city below.

"It has been said the Chantry would need a miracle to survive," Josephine lured her friend's eyes back to her own playful smile, "I think it would be safe to say you have provided one."

* * *

King Alistair rested on the balustrade of the balcony outside the audience chamber. The wine was good and the night air cooled its heat in his blood. He was glad Anora chose not to attend this evening, despite Solona's insistent invitation. The Queen never stopped being queen and would've been horribly out of place amongst this crowd. Not to mention she would've insisted he wear his formal attire. Two weeks in all those layers of frilly brocade, just so that Ferelden would look presentable to Orlais. It felt good to be back in breeches and leathers. With Leliana in Chantry garb, Morrigan sporting her familiar scant clothing, Isabela's unchanged display of cleavage and Zevran's eternally charming smile, it was easy to feel time slipping between his fingers. Of course, Solona was the same no matter what she wore. The woman had changed robes for a uniform, uniform for armor and now armor for freedom. Standing so steadfast at Leliana's side, the Hero had never looked more at peace. Maker knew she deserved it.

"Your Majesty," Commander Rutherford nodded greeting as he came onto the balcony.

"Commander," Alistair returned, the formal title uncomfortable on such a casual night. Cullen was silent for a time, cooling his own head from the noise and wine. When he did turn his attention to the Fereldan royal he immediately noticed where Alistair's gaze had been.

"I've been wondering," the blonde allowed his own eyes to fall on the Hero, "Does the taint make wardens prettier with age?"

Clearly the man had drunk enough to be fully relaxed, even in the presence of his king. Fortunately, said king was also relaxed enough to chuckle at the question. Shared history had a way of breaking down pretension.

"That depends, Commander, how attractive do you find me right now?" Alistair grinned when the former Templar laughed. The humor faded into a sigh and both men inevitably found their attention drawn back to the beautiful woman at the side of the Divine.

"She doesn't age at all. She acquires battle scars while I only seem to be getting wrinkles of late." Cullen's furrowed brow intensified the lines he spoke of. Waging war was far harder when he had to be on the front lines _and_ behind a desk.

"She carries herself differently these days," Alistair added his own observation, "She used to be so driven, as if she had to do everything everyone asked just to live up to the titles they gave her."

"I've known other women like that." The Commander instinctively looked to Hawke, then the Inquisitor. Perhaps it was no coincidence that the Hero and Champion both chose to disappear from the world that had made so many demands of them. How long before it drove Trevelyan away as well? It was comforting that both of those heroes had eventually returned.

Solona especially was encouraging, she was calmer. She seemed to have thrown the weight of the world off her shoulders. Just as well, since it was now Leliana's turn to carry the burdens of leadership. The Warden could now give her love the support and relief she would need, just as the bard had once been safe haven for her Hero. Laughter too, as that was Solona's particular gift; demonstrated when she leaned closer to the redhead's ear and murmured some comment that made the Divine burst into a melodic sound of delight.

"How long did it take you to figure out . . .?" Cullen didn't know quite how to finish the question.

"That I never had a chance with her?" Alistair easily filled in the gap, "About the time we met Princess Stabbity over there. You?"

"I had the misfortune of interrupting her with another apprentice. The other girl was so startled she cast a grease spell under their feet and they both collapsed." Rutherford could still feel his cheeks redden at the memory.

"Oh dear. That's terrible," the King immediately sympathized, resting a hand on the man's shoulder, "I think you must start from the beginning and tell me everything."

"All I have to tell you is that young Solona said that if I stayed one second longer she was going to charge me coin. I believe once I left she used her staff to wedge the door shut." Cullen vaguely recalled one of the cooks complaining later that day about a mess in the storeroom and how swiftly he'd avoided hearing anything about honey.

"Yeees," Alistair drew out the pensive thought, "That does sound like her. She was never one to let others get in the way of what she wanted."

"Definitely a family trait," the Commander's rueful chuckle had echoes of the dozens of arguments he'd lost against Hawke during their time in Kirkwall, "But I suppose it all worked out for the best."

The second comment accompanied a smile spreading across the rugged planes of his face. Bethany was making her way towards them. The younger Hawke managed to blend much of her cousin and sister into one. After a life on the run as an apostate she was wary of the Chantry, not angry or bitter. Training with the wardens had given her some of the confidence that so permeated the Champion but without any of the brashness. Her kind nature had been chafed, given just enough callous to survive without having to surrender to apathy. Despite everything she had endured she retained the innocence of hope and it filled Cullen with terrifying wonder to know she trusted him with all that was left.

"I'm late, I apologize. I got distracted with some reports from Weisshaupt and when I realized what time it was -," Bethany frowned, ducking her head slightly, "I must look a mess."

"You're everything I could want to see." Cullen corrected her, the past few minutes' conversation lending even more sincerity to his words. Memories held little allure when the present reality offered so much more.

"Careful, talk too smooth and Hawke will think you're trying to seduce me." The mage blushed, a sweet contrast to the smile teasing on her lips.

"There could be worse ideas." The Commander wasn't particularly practiced at charm. He was trained to be simple and direct. It was his good fortune that combining those traits with genuine emotion was more than enough to delight the object of his affections. Bethany had grown up with a sister that could coax the knickers off a statue; Cullen's honesty was exactly what she needed.

"Oh yes? You must tell me some of them." The youngest Hawke took the Commander's hands, tugging lightly. They both bowed deference to the king, receiving a generous nod of approval that let them be excused.

"All worked out. Right." Alistair sighed, watching the two depart. He raised his glass in a silent toast. Solona got to be the Hero of Ferelden, he got to be king and Cullen . . . Cullen got a beautiful mage warden pulling him down for a kiss.

* * *

"Don't look now, sweets, but your sister has her tongue down Shiny's throat." Isabela chuckled as Hawke's eyes rolled heavenward. The Champion turned to spot Bethany and Cullen's fairly chaste kiss near the balcony. Watching the fumbling, shy romance between her sister and the former knight-captain always raised a volley of conflicted emotion. Her dominant instinct, trained from years of protecting her family from Templars, was to slit the man's throat and whisk Bethany away to some distant exile. Fortunately, her second reaction was almost as strong and it begged her to just take the two of them to the Rose and let them bloody well learn how to properly do what they so pathetically were attempting.

"Maker's ass, thirty years old and they both still act like virgins," Hawke sighed, wondering if she should count that as a success or failure on her part as a sister.

"They act like they're in love, Hawke. It's different," Varric corrected, observing the two with the trained eye of storyteller gathering material. Templars and mages were always great for a romance serial.

"It's boring," Isabela corrected, already tired of watching the amateurs.

"Not everyone has to be near-death experiences and orgies, Rivaini. Somebody's got to be normal," the dwarf reminded them with the grin of a man who'd made a fortune off telling tales of those exact adventures.

"Like you? Humming love songs to your crossbow in the middle of the night?" Hawke teased, whistling a few bars of the tune that always graced the air when Varric was on watch.

"I'm a romantic," the blonde easily shrugged, refusing to be embarrassed, "It keeps me out of the kind of trouble you two are always in. Speaking of – what are you doing now that the job is done?"

"Finding more trouble." The Champion immediately replied with a smirk. Her eyes darted to Isabela, silently suggesting the pirate take lead. They hadn't actually discussed any details. There was only one simple plan.

"We'll put back to sea." The sailor's rich voice caressed that fact, eyes alight with visions of far off horizons.

Hawke was very aware that she had kept Isabela on land for far too long already. She knew that if she asked the pirate to give up the sea she would, just as Isabela knew that Hawke would never ask. _The Siren's Call II_ had arrived in port a few days before. The crew was confined on board to prevent further damage to the wrecked harbor but that wouldn't last long.

"Sure you're ready for that, Hawke? Means letting go of your sister's leash." Varric nodded once more to Bethany, the mage currently laughing as Cullen spat out a particularly disgusting piece of cheese. 'Close your eyes and open your mouth' was a very dangerous game in Orlais.

The Champion lingered on the sight of her sister's smile. It was wonderful to see her relaxed, at ease with herself and everyone around her. The pressure of her fears had finally abated and even though there were shadows in her life – the wardens, blights, the Calling – her whole face was bright. If being with a spit-shined soldier made her feel that secure, Hawke was hardly going to interfere. Outside inappropriate questions, gifts and at least one good, terrifying threat about what would happen if the man ever hurt her.

"She's safe and happy. That's all mother ever wanted for us." Hawke felt Isabela's hand squeeze her own, a reflex that always accompanied mention of Leandra.

It had taken years to recover from the trauma of her mother's gruesome death. Longer still to make peace with what had been a tumultuous and demanding relationship while she was alive. Occasionally, she and Bethany would sit and remember as much as they could. The feel of her hair when they played with it as children, the tone of her laugh, the smell of those awful raisin cakes she insisted were good for them, the sheer power of her tongue if anyone dared insult her family. They tried to focus on only the good; to block out the memories of her tears when father died, or the blame and anger that swelled up on the edge of her grief and always lashed in the wrong direction. Most of all, they tried to forget her fear. So long as they remembered her happy, they could keep their own pain at bay.

"It's good she'll still be with family. I don't see anybody hurting Sunshine with your cousin watching her back." Varric's voice was gentler as he waited for Hawke to emerge from the silence that followed thoughts of her mother.

"She'll utterly corrupt the girl with romantic ideas," Isabela sighed mournfully, "It's too late for the Warden and her songbird but I'd hoped to save Bethany from such a dull fate."

"It suits her, Rivaini. Being back in the sun has probably helped but I'd bet you my granny's axe that the Hero's glow comes from being with Nightingale." The dwarf didn't bother to mention that his granny never had an axe. She preferred maces.

Hawke studied her cousin, pulling up the memory of their meetings back when the Warden was still a denizen of the Deep Roads. She definitely had color again, even a flush to her cheeks occasionally when the Divine's eyes communicated some secret message. The woman she'd met years before had been gaunt, like a ghost of herself, walking the world to complete a mission so that she could achieve peace. She must have succeeded. Being with Leliana again had filled in the cracks and holes of her soul and made her complete. She looked softer.

"I wonder just how much she's changed?" Isabela muttered thoughtfully, eyes scrutinizing the woman even more carefully than Hawke. She could do that of course, having seen the woman naked.

"More than you're going to find out," the Champion snapped her fingers in front of her lover's face, luring her attention back, "Don't pout, it makes you irresistible and there are far too many potential victims in this room."

"Come now, sweet thing," Isabela slid her hand over Hawke's hip, pulling her closer, "All these delectable choices. Surely I could lure one or two to join us."

"The bed only holds so many, 'Bela," the Champion shook her head firmly before leaning down to offer a raw whisper in the pirate's ear, "And I already invited Cuddles and Zevran for some fun."

"You darling!" The Rivaini sailor let out throaty laugh of delight, throwing her arms around her lover's neck, "What did I do to deserve you?"

"Something very, very, very bad." Hawke grinned, letting herself be drawn down to a kiss, appetite and affection wrestling for dominance in their lips. A few whistles, cat calls and compliments from around the room promised that their audience appreciated the display. Feeling the demand of Isabela's mouth, intoxicating caresses alternated with plunder, Hawke was glad her sister would never know what she was missing.

* * *

The Inquisitor had grown used to the eccentricities of her allies. She was no longer flustered by Isabela's brazen flirtations, irritated by Vivienne's arrogance, deceived by Varric's stories or confused by Sera's mood swings. At times she still found herself worried by Blackwall's pensive silences or Cassandra's temper (when there was no obvious cause) and she'd learned to not go anywhere near Iron Bull's quarters unless she knew precisely where Dorian was.

The only friend that continually left her bewildered was Cole. If she tried to think too hard about why he did anything her mind would twist into a knot and he'd inevitably show up as though she'd been screaming at the top of her lungs. The turnips and plums and daggers all made sense in their own way but a hundred other odd events could always be traced back to the spirit-turned-flesh's compulsions. Right now, though she was doing her best to ignore it, she was fully aware that he was hiding behind her.

"I believe your whore friend is trying to set a new record for blasphemies." Cassandra's mouth was a thin line of distaste, turning away from the spectacle of Isabela and Hawke. Just in time too, as she missed the sailor's hand groping Champion ass. That had to have made Isabela's top ten list of offensive things to do in her life. _#5: Fondle my girlfriend in the Maker's house with the Divine watching._

"Since when is she _my_ friend? She's an asset to the Inquisition." Trevelyan defended both herself and, by extension, the pirate. It was harder to maintain a sincerely wounded expression when the Rivaini's moan reached them across the hall. Bloody woman just loved putting on a show. It was all Eve could do not to crack a smile.

"Her assets are hardly the point of contention." The Seeker's frown would have terrified enemies and poured dread even into the hearts of friends. The Inquisitor, however, saw the twitch of muscle in her cheek, the part of her fighting not to smirk and betray her sarcasm. Pure of heart and spirit she might be, but Cassandra had learned the subtle repartee of innuendo and Eve was tempted to drag the woman into a kiss of her own just to reward that stunning riposte. Barbed jokes about Isabela's cleavage! Trevelyan didn't think she could love the woman more.

A few months ago the Seeker would have violently ripped the two women apart, incurring the Champion's wrath and turning the holy room into a battlefield. Learning the nature and intensity of their relationship had mellowed that particular instinct. Respect for Hawke and even a grudging acknowledgment of Isabela's strengths had made her more tolerant. Instead of walking over and thumping both of them on the head, she simply looked to Aveline and smiled when the guard captain gave a small nod. The redheaded Fereldan was far better at subduing the two rogues and seldom suffered any bodily harm. Hurting her would be like trying to chip iron.

"Flaming balls!" Isabela cursed, fingers brushing her lower lip and coming away with blood after Aveline had yanked Hawke so sharply away.

"You've had worse, slattern," the guard captain teased, utterly unfazed by the pirate's blasphemy and Hawke's indignant scowl.

"I wouldn't know, Big Girl, I haven't had you yet," Isabela shot back, smirk as indomitable as ever.

"If you two can't control yourselves then I'll have you escorted to your chambers or a cell, whichever you prefer." Aveline ignored the sultry suggestion, focusing her attention on Hawke since it was only the Champion that could make Isabela behave. About 75% of the time.

"Hmm, the cells of the Grand Cathedral?" The pirate contemplated the choice, "Are there chantry robes and some whips? Ooh, a rack maybe."

"Hawke, get her out of here before the Maker returns just to punish you," Aveline sighed, the fondness in her voice reaching the edges of its patience.

"He wasn't invited to the cells." The Champion shook her head firmly, wrapping an arm around Isabela's waist to lead the sailor away. Only the Rivaini's exotic laughter remained behind.

Inquisitor Trevelyan felt half her mouth pull into an ironic smile, pleased to find that of the all the constants in the universe, Isabela and Hawke were the most immutable. From the first time they met she'd known the pirate to be brazen, thieving, duplicitous, wanton and utterly, completely devoted to her Champion. Hawke was the same, but with less aggressively sexual overtones. They consumed each other completely and Eve often wondered how either survived so many years of such intensity. Fires that burned so hot were usually the first to fade.

"Lust, love, longing, leaving, let me back, let me in, love is loss is life," Cole's voice answered the unspoken thoughts, "Weather the sea, steer the storm. Anchors and anvils don't sit the same."

"Cole," Trevelyan finally turned her head enough to see the blonde, "Why have you been hiding behind me for the last half hour?"

"The Fade's touch fades, awake and aware and far away in the abyss. An inch that is indefinite, feeling the familiar but afraid. She wants to find." The boy's circular explanation sounded like pain and Eve reached out a hand to steady him. Flesh he might be but his mind remained untethered, wandering between this world and that beyond. It was difficult to hear him speak of others' suffering because he absorbed it into himself, every sadness and pain he ended became part of who he was.

"Solace asked for his help," Cassandra explained, "She felt she was out of practice breaking the Veil and sensing spirits. Though she summoned Grace without issue today, I believe she is nervous about her ability to do so regularly in the future."

"It's a heavy responsibility. To be the sole medium for a spirit that can free the Tranquil." The Inquisitor released her hold of Cole's shoulder. The mage in question was still on the far side of the room, face lined in concentration as she sought to pinpoint the concealed spirit.

"Imagine my thoughts about trying to train them into Seekers. An army of mages without discipline, magic or control of their emotions." Seeker Pentaghast had a way of scowling at the ground whenever she felt the universe was laughing at her.

"An assumption based on one man, Cassandra. Pharamond was Tranquil for decades before he was freed; by a demon, not a spirit of faith. We cannot predict what will happen when Grace releases the others." Trevelyan had read the book of the Order, all the information on the Rite of Tranquility and what it entailed. She'd also read Pharamond's papers and the report Wynne sent to Divine Justinia. There were more holes than facts.

"Even if we knew it to be dangerous, we would still have to try; to balance the world once more. It is fitting that Seekers gave birth to tranquility and it is now the Tranquil that will make Seekers." Cassandra also spied Solace, the blonde chewing her lip as she scanned the room. It was only when the mage closed her eyes that the wrinkles on her brow vanished and her mouth turned into a tiny smile.

"But we should probably warn the mages at Skyhold to put their lyrium in a safe place. Just in case." Eve pointed out, watching as Solace - eyes still shut - made a direct line towards them.

"Agreed," the Seeker confirmed, also curious about the strange precision of the girl's movement. The Orlesian stopped less than a foot away from Trevelyan and when her hand shot out it was within an inch of her face. But the touch didn't grace the Inquisitor, resting instead on the brim of Cole's hat.

"Found you!" Solace grinned, opening her eyes.

"Twice took time; doubting, denying, trying to turn away. You brush the Veil and shudder before it breaks." Cole reached up and grazed one finger against the hand touching him, his words a blend of sadness and scolding.

"I'll do better this time," the mage stated with absolute certainty. The spirit's only response was a small smile and then he vanished. Eve hadn't seen that trick for quite some time; she hadn't known he could still do it so well. Solace chewed her lower lip in concentration, looking around before a confident smirk spread over her face and she charged off in the direction of nothing.

"Well, that's going to be fun." The Inquisitor turned back to Cassandra, shrugging helplessly as she always did when yet another batshit crazy ally was added to their company.

"You have a very warped idea of amusement," the Seeker frowned, watching the first of the new Order pushing through unsuspecting groups of people as she engaged in a supernatural game of hide and seek.

"You would know, Cassandra." Eve dropped her eyes, savoring the long journey from the Nevarran's booted legs all the way back up to her lips.

"You do enjoy being a sore temptation, don't you, Inquisitor?" The Seeker had tracked every inch of Trevelyan's gaze and her mouth parted slightly before she regained control.

"I enjoy anything I do with you, Seeker," Eve shot the title right back. She wasn't expecting a hand to reach around her neck, drawing her close for the other warrior to whisper words for her alone.

"I enjoy everything you do. But it is the effort that makes every triumph sweeter." Cassandra's breath fell across the Inquisitor's cheek and she shuddered, clenching her fists to keep from grabbing hold of the woman's mantle.

"I suppose," Trevelyan had to lick her suddenly dry lips, "I could just throw you over my shoulder and haul you from the room. Effort enough?"

"Inviting though that is," the Seeker's laugh dismissed the very idea, "It would take far greater strength for us to remain here, polite, involved and supportive of our ally's triumph. Let us put her first. That way, when I have you alone, there will be no guilt."

"Maker, Cassandra," Eve could feel her bones getting weaker with every hot breath against her ear, "You do ask the impossible."

"Only because I know what you are capable of doing, my love." The Seeker stepped back, exultant laughter sparkling in her eyes and the turn of her lips. Whatever power it had taken for her to pull away from the tightening desire between them, it was obviously worth it in the triumph of her smile.

"That's it," Trevelyan scowled, realizing how thoroughly she'd been manipulated and how much she'd loved every second, "I'm blaspheming tonight. A lot."

"I'm counting on it." Cassandra allowed herself the wider smile that would've been pleasure on most faces but was smug victory on her. She started to turn and walk away but Eve caught her arm and pulled her back, savoring the startled breath against her face and eyes that turned almost black gazing at her. There was nothing about this woman that she didn't want to conquer and surrender to all at once, to absorb and be overwhelmed by, to be joined together and know they were one for as many minutes or hours or years as the universe would allow.

"I love you." The Inquisitor hated that the words sounded so strangled in her throat. She'd said them dozens of times to the Seeker but each time it felt like a raw confession, every repetition new in its passion. The words didn't feel like enough. Not when so many emotions and thoughts bubbled inside of her, begging to compose volumes of poetry, lyrical melodies, entire paintings of brightly colored rapture. She couldn't do any of that and the frustration gnawed at the edges of her words, pouring desperate sincerity into an otherwise simple affection.

"I know." Cassandra brushed a hand over Eve's lips, understanding the unspoken extents of feeling, the limited boundaries of words for everything that existed between them. She grazed her lips against the Inquisitor's cheek, the barest hint of contact and promise. With that assurance Trevelyan released the Seeker, certain that they would resume the conversation in more private and permissive quarters.

She'd been lucky to be born into a noble family. Lucky to survive the destruction of Haven and the chaos of the past two years. Lucky to rise above every petty political squabble, defeat enemies and assume a leadership unparalleled in Thedas. Yet nothing made her feel like she had Andraste's own blessing like the sight of Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, turning briefly as she walked away, favoring her with a genuine smile.

* * *

Warden Amell made her way out of the Divine's audience chamber shortly after Leliana had retired for the night. Their allies would likely continue reveling until they passed out or dawn light seared the alcohol behind their eyes. She would've stayed with them once, delighting in the gluttonous celebrations of victory and life. It seemed less important now, commemorating every small triumph when the greater war was still at large. She envied her friends their ease and happiness because they had no idea of the climatic battles that were about to be waged all across Thedas.

As much as Leliana had planned, strategized, blackmailed and bribed, there would still be resistance to the reforms. Stubborn nobles would refuse to recognize elves; scarred farmers would never forgive the mages. The months ahead were laced with dangers like magical glyphs on a battlefield. Even with a miracle at her fingertips, Divine Victoria would have to fight for every inch of the ground she wished to restore to the Maker's original plan. Fortunately, the former bard was accustomed to such wars. She'd been seneschal for the only hope of all Thedas in the face of Corypheus and still people fought her, the Inquisition and everything they represented. Was there anything more human than resisting deliverance?

The Hero was startled from her thoughts when hands snuck out of shadow and wrapped around her, pulling her back against a hard but curvaceous form.

"You delicious slattern," Isabela purred in the mage's ear, "How far along are you?"

Solona's instinctive reaction was confusion, denial, anything other than answering the question honestly. But she knew Isabela. Their meeting might have been brief and long ago but the rogue had learned the mage incredibly well in that single night and the same was true in reverse. She could tell by the way deft fingers slid down her abdomen, caressing the flesh below her navel, Isabela already knew all the answers and was only testing to see if the famed Hero might lie.

"Twelve weeks," Solona confessed, part of her mind wondering if the pirate could actually feel the tiny life this early.

"No wonder the ice bitch and kitten keep such a close eye on you. They have to make sure the magic's working. It is magic isn't it?" Isabela's hands had begun to explore with an almost clinical curiosity, "I know there's no way you'd let anyone other than the songbird touch you. But I'd love to hear the details."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is for Grey Wardens to conceive?" the Hero's words weren't as harsh as her laugh, "You could count on one hand the number of warden children born in a century."

"I'd heard that," the pirate's more teasing personality relented, coming around to face the woman straight on, "So all those potions you've been drinking, they weren't for the Calling at all, were they?"

"It started with that, a way to break the Joining. But now," Solona paused, wondering how she could explain, "Having a child might be part of the cure but that seems like the least important thing in the world anymore."

Morrigan and Bethany had pored over every inch of Fiona's records. They both got it into their heads that it was a mixture of the Architect's magic and her pregnancy that removed the taint from her blood. It took a lot of magic to let a warden conceive. Old spells, rare potions, dangerous ingredients perfectly balanced to create life where death had taken root. It had taken a lot of research and failure and even now, three months along, Solona went to bed each night terrified that the dragonsong would return to her dreams, that the taint would race back through her blood and kill the fragile miracle they were trying so hard to protect. She didn't want to have a child to cure the Calling; she wanted to cure the Calling so she could have her child. The two were inextricably bound together.

"You'll make a good mother, sweet thing. Maker knows I'd recognize a bad one." Isabela could be surprisingly perceptive. It was part of what made her so bloody dangerous. The gentle assurance in her tone soothed away the worry that always gnawed into the Warden's mind when she thought about the perils that lay ahead. The pirate had obviously gotten much better with emotions over the last decade. Her cousin's influence, no doubt. And thinking of Hawke . . .

"Did you actually leave sex just to come satisfy your suspicions?" The Hero demanded, trying to find clues in the sailor's appearance. It was impossible. Scantily clad, disheveled and decadent, Isabela always looked like she was three steps from the nearest bed.

"Do you know your cousin at all?" The Rivaini's rich voice hummed with laughter, "No, sweets. I didn't abandon Hawke to torment you. She's off getting a few things to make the evening . . . memorable."

"Isn't everything with you?" Solona knew that she and her cousin shared the same crooked smile when they were amused. It never failed to bring a glimmer of affection to Isabela's eyes.

"Flatterer. I always liked that tongue of yours. So skilled," the sailor smiled, moving in closer as if to revisit a few choice memories.

"As I recall, you liked Leliana better," the Hero chuckled, breaking the seductive air. She was used to Isabela's flirtations, though they made her a trifle uncomfortable when Hawke was around. That was when the pirate became truly wicked as she so loved tormenting them both.

"Don't be hurt, sweet thing. There's skill and then there's Maker-given gift. But since you brought up the songbird," the pirate's eyes turned mischievous, "Are you going to tell me how she's involved in this little trick or leave me to my own sordid imaginings?"

Solona's sigh was too amused to be scolding. Of course Isabela would come back to that detail. It was a question that would eventually start coming up more and more in the coming months, when loose clothing wouldn't be enough to keep secrets. She hadn't worked out precisely what to tell people when they began asking. In fact, she liked the idea of giving a different answer to every suspicious query. She could weave stories of mystery lovers, secret marriages, forbidden liaisons with powerful nobles – the more scandalous the gossip the further it spread, leaving the truth miles away.

Just now, however, just this once, she didn't want to lie.

"You can't tell anyone, Isabela, not even Hawke." The Hero took the pirate's arm, drawing her closer to speak quietly.

"She'll find out eventually, Warden. Hawke's a bloody hound when it comes to smelling secrets," the sailor objected, years of frustration confessed in the annoyance of her eyes.

"Not until she's born. Then I don't care who knows. Can you keep it to yourself that long?" Solona saw a nod and knew that if anyone could keep a secret, it was a woman like Isabela. She'd woven so many lies and mysteries into her past that no one even knew her true name.

"You already know it's a girl?" The Rivaini frowned skeptically. She'd watched the seers in her home country try to predict the genders of unborn children with everything from magical pendants to pissing on plants. They were still wrong more than 50% of the time, which was bloody ridiculous when there were only two options.

"It's definitely a girl," the mage's smile widened, enjoying the pirate's tortured curiosity, "If we're lucky she'll have red hair and a beautiful voice."

Without another word she released the pirate and resumed the walk to her room. Let Isabela make of that answer any elaborate fantasy she liked. Solona was happy to keep the truth between herself, Leliana and some very rare books. Whether she cured the Calling or not, their child would be a miracle. The one that made everything else possible, even for the Divine.


	39. Act X Epilogue

_And the bloody idiots sailed us straight into the storm! Last time Isabela and I stay drinking in port longer than the crew. I knew it was trouble when Brand had to come drag us out of bed. Ever seen a drunk Rivaini at the helm? A bit like watching a fennec try to wrestle with a boulder. With a lot of swearing and no smalls. And no, I do not know where her smalls were. I was drunk too._

Warden Amell had to pause her reading long enough to set her glass down before she spilled it laughing. The letters from Hawke had been arriving regularly ever since she and her pirate left Val Royeaux in a hail of fanfare, celebration and bitter resentment from the guards who were three minutes too late to catch her. Apparently Admiral Isabela had taken a few choice souvenirs with her; notably three pendants, two diamond tiaras, a particularly stunning hat and enough weaponry to outfit a garrison. It wasn't just that she got away that so chafed the Royan guards' pride, it was the fact that she stood in the crow's nest blowing kisses as they left.

_Anyway, we just touched land back in Llomeryn. Lot of loot to flog after jaunting in the Nocen for the past few months. Did you know Tevinter slavers had an earring fetish? Must have 20 pounds of the things. Twice that in ears. Isabela doesn't care for slavers these days. Tell Cuddles we've got the arrows she was looking for. You do know she's only asking for hollow tips because she plans to convert them to exploding heads, right? Anyone pissed her off lately who wears a lot of armor?_

Solona glanced to the map on the far wall, markers charting the travels of the Chantry's Envoy. She'd finished traversing the Dales of Orlais and was now working slowly across Ferelden. The elven settlements back home weren't as well known or stationary so the thief and her escort often showed up in a cleared meadow just days after the caravels had left. Reports from Charter suggested that the blonde's temper hadn't improved and a number of innocent trees had been sacrificed to her rather explosive disposition.

_Got word from Varric a few days ago. Kirkwall's rebuilding nicely now, thanks to a lot of mysterious gold making its way into the efforts. The merchant's guild would string him up by his coinpurse if they thought he was the one driving prices down but it wouldn't be the first time he'd crossed them and come out smiling. Underneath all that gruff exterior and charming bullshit there's more bullshit, but also a crazy dwarf trying to save his hometown. Can't be chance he raised me out of the gutter. Starting to wonder if I was ever the real Champion of Kirkwall. The chest hair alone deserves a medal; key to my city any day – Dammit! That wasn't me. Isabela must have snuck in here while I was talking to the harbor master._

Hawke tended to take days to write her letters. Not because she struggled for thoughts or words – not with that wit and tongue – but because the nature of her life meant she was never more than a few minutes away from crisis. If no natural disaster was looming in the near distance then she'd go out and poke enemies until she found one willing to play. The Hero had absolutely no idea how her cousin was enduring days at sea with no visible conflicts. Then again, during that time she had Isabela and the pirate captain was a war in herself.

_Bloody woman, adding her two coppers when I've already got three pages finished. Merrill and Sera are on a jaunt in Denerim, visiting the Jennies and terrorizing the bakeries, I'm sure. Gives Aveline a break. She says when the two are in Kirkwall the hate crimes are down but vandalism goes up. Love and sabotage, doesn't that just sound elven to the core? I'm sure Asha'bellanar would be pleased. Speaking of, how're Morrigan and the lady killer?_

Homicidal and terrifying as ever. The Warden shook her head with a rueful smile. Not even falling in love – if it could be called that – changed the Witch of the Wilds. She was acerbic, commanding and dismissive as ever, treating any person that crossed her path as a nuisance at best. The fact that she'd found herself inexplicably fond of an assassin only intensified the danger of knocking on the apostate's door without extra armor.

Ravenel made regular sojourns to Tevinter, contracted by an old friend who served in the Magesterium. She caught occasional hints that there were big plans in motion, a splinter group called the Lucerni that wanted to bring the Imperium back to its senses. Every so often rumors bled across the border of magisters inexplicably slain at banquets, dropping dead in the street or never waking up from a peaceful night's rest. Each death weakened the status quo and gave Magister Tilani greater power. And every time Ravenel returned she had a stunning new array of dresses. Solona noticed she never saw the same gown twice. Either fashion dictated each one was retired after a single wearing or, as Leliana so wickedly supposed, they were damaged beyond repair by Morrigan's impatience.

_We'll catch the winter winds south, stop off in Wycome and Ostwick to sell a few shiny baubles and deliver some of the Armada's ransom demands, then on to Jader. Isabela has an old contact there with leads on some lost Qunari booty and you know she can't resist getting one up on the ox-men if there's any chance. I just hope it's something with more resale value than holy books. Surprisingly low prices for tomes won in duels to the death. Probably cause you couldn't pay most people to read that shit._

Solona instantly knew where the note was heading. If Hawke was going to be as close as Jader then there wasn't a chance this side of the Void that she wouldn't insist on pressing on to Val Royeaux to see her family. The guard would have to be alerted, of course, and the staff of the cathedral warned. Four months since the Champion had departed and some of the servants still swooned at the mention of Hawke's name. Maker preserve us, if the Champion had been a man there would probably be a dozen blue-eyed bastards on the way. Twice as many with copper skin if the same were said of Isabela. _Bronze skin, crystal eyes, black hair . . . wouldn't be a bad looking kid._

A sudden heave of her stomach slammed the Warden against her desk, the letter sent flying along with everything else on the surface. Ink made a ferocious splatter across the floor and wall while papers fluttered indignantly in the air as the mage pushed herself upright once more.

"Jealous, are we?" Solona brushed the hair out of her face, glancing down at the pronounced swell of her stomach. Morrigan had told her that a child born of magic was likely to cause strange symptoms during the pregnancy. Potions made by the apostate and her cousin kept the brunt of the negative side effects at bay but she'd neglected to mention that fetal force spells would accompany the more traditional kicks and spins.

A second burst of power would've sent the Hero reeling backwards in her seat if she hadn't been expecting it. The little warden had her redheaded mother's athletics and Solona's own stubborn temper; she never stopped with one fit of violent gymnastics.

"Stuck indoors too long? Come along, a walk and some target practice will wear us both out." Solona rose and grabbed her staff from the corner, twirling it and feeling the tingling arc that passed from the wrought metal straight to her toes. The twist in her stomach was the baby doing a tiny somersault of echoed pleasure. Her hand reached for the door and was startled back when it burst open on its own, revealing Leliana.

The Divine had none of the retinue that usually trailed her like moths around flame. The lines at her eyes could have been carved with a chisel but the crystal blue color was bright as lightning, her lips barely resisting the victory of a grin.

"Leli, I didn't think I'd see you for days yet." The Warden tossed her staff aside and went straight to the other woman, gathered into a tight embrace. She inhaled the redhead's comforting scent, more sensitive than ever to the delicate traces of wildflower lingering on her skin.

At the beginning of the week all the Grand Clerics arrived and Divine Victoria had been secluded with them since, petitions and arguments beginning before dawn light and lasting well into dark. Reports from servants who'd been privileged with the horrifying responsibility of taking refreshments into the barred meeting all held the same grim descriptions of tense standoffs and scriptural battle. No group in all Thedas could be more stubborn than the women tasked with caring for people's souls instead of their lives. Solona had resigned herself to not getting even a glimpse of her love for a week or longer.

"You thought I could stay away from you both so long? The days are torturous enough already, no?" The rogue gave a small chuckle as one hand trailed down to Solona's stomach, gently resting against the swell until she could feel movement, "Comment vas-tu, mon ange? Je t'ai raté, bien-aimé."

The Hero was still not familiar with enough Orlesian to understand most of what Leliana said when she spoke to the child but there was no mistaking the affection that warmed her words. Or the ecstatic reaction that always followed. All it took was a single note of that delicate, melodious voice and an immediate volley of kicks and spins threatened to dislodge her meal. A zephyr of sensation made the door and windows rattle, bringing a delighted laugh from the Divine.

"She is getting stronger." The former bard made no attempt to hide her pleased approval. She wasn't the one that had to deal with hot and cold flashes waking her up in the middle of the night because the little mage was flexing her magical muscles.

"She is going to be impossible, Leli, you know that, don't you?" Solona allowed a rueful chuckle to escape with her sigh.

"Just like her mother, yes?" Leliana's smile chased the exhaustion from her eyes, bright and playful once more. She pulled off the tiresome headdress that wore lines into her brow, shaking out her flaming hair.

"The redheaded one, yes," The mage teased as she threaded her fingers into the loosed waves, stroking them into place, savoring the way her love closed her eyes to enjoy every hint of the touch, "Do you have to resume talks today? It's early yet."

The Divine's eyes opened then, sparkling with barely contained revelations. She caught one of Solona's hands, pressing it to her lips before a smile completely consumed her expression. The Hero felt a pause in her heartbeat, paralyzed by a sudden surge of hope.

"We are done for today. The Grand Cleric of Starkhaven yielded. It was close but her vote was the last I needed; the council has agreed." Leliana's jubilation bubbled into her voice, face filling with radiant triumph.

"They agreed?" The Hero demanded in amazement.

It had been four very long months as opinion and protest swept across southern Thedas, the Divine's reforms welcomed and despised in equal measure. Death threats and hate made their way to the Grand Cathedral daily but were barely a needle in the haystack of praise and gratitude that continued to pour in. Leliana's network of spies and secrets kept many powerful objectors at bay and the looming sword of the Inquisition silenced the rest. It had still been a battle; waged in words and prayer perhaps, but a war nonetheless. Was it really over?

"All but two voices and they were overruled. The Canticle of Shartan will be returned to the Chant of Light. The first elf and dwarf initiates are already taking vows in Redcliffe and Halamshiral." The Most Holy's lips caressed both city names, smug with the satisfaction of having predicted correctly.

She had guessed from the outset that Marquise Briala would be eager to cement an alliance between the People and the Chantry, quickly producing half a dozen elven girls from the alienages who displayed spiritual interests and very sharp minds. Scout Harding had also been instrumental, familiar with several 'Suntouched' dwarves who'd been on the surface long enough to think more about a Maker above than the Stone below.

"Leliana, that's wonderful." Solona forced her voice to be strong and happy, choking back a swell of disappointment that only made her feel selfish.

This triumph would be Divine Victoria's legacy. Opening the Chantry to all races meant a better faith for all of Thedas, a future that could include elves and humans (maybe even Qunari) seeing each other as something other than target practice. The loneliness of her empty bed was trivial in comparison. Of course, by now she should've known better than to think she could ever fool her love. Leliana's hand brushed her cheek, delicately breaking the façade that she'd tried to pull over her eyes. Her gaze fell into the ocean of crystal blue before her, watching as her every thought and feeling ignited a different sparkle in the consuming color. There was no way to keep secrets from the woman that could read her dreams by the flutter of her lashes.

"Truthfully, I think the Grand Clerics wanted the matter settled just so they could move to the next item on the agenda. The congregations have been most vocal. It is a terrifying thing for shepherds to realize their sheep have a will, yes?" The Most Holy's fingers traced Solona's lips, smiling at the way her mouth instinctively parted under the touch, letting out a trembling breath.

"The next item. Official standing for mages?" The Hero leaned into the feather light brush of contact, resigned to the torture of these miniature intimacies.

"That will be tomorrow," Leliana shook her head, her other hand slipping around Solona's waist and pulling her so close that she could feel the hard edges of medallions biting into her breast. The Warden sucked in a sharp breath, startled by the sudden bloom of heat threatening to melt her bones. It had been months since she had felt her lover like this and her body knew no difference between woman and Divine.

"Your Perfection," the mage's use of the title was as much taunt as warning, "You have about thirty seconds before I start breaking your vows."

"As long as that?" The rogue's amusement purred against her ear, sending a violent shiver to her toes, "I would have you naked in half that time."

"Andraste's marbled tits, Leli! Are you trying to kill me?" Solona fisted her hands in the loose folds of the Divine's robes, desperate to will away the torment of desire but eager to drown in it all the same. The sensation of kisses exploring along the edge of her jaw was ten times as devastating as a lightning spell.

"Is that what you want to know, my love? I have seen a question on your lips since I walked in. You must ask, no?" Leliana's mouth scorched a trail along her throat, soft and sharp, languid and breathtaking.

"Holy f-!" The Hero bit her lip to stifle a blasphemous moan when the bard's deft touch teased her upper thigh, the surge of warmth harnessing what was left of her senses, "The vows, dammit! How much longer?!"

"See? You only had to ask," the Divine stopped her tortures long enough to lean back and reveal a smile like the fall of saints, "The council was unanimous, Solona. Chastity will be amended to allow for the Maker's gift of love."

The Warden stared at her, processing the revelation. Her thoughts could absorb nothing else for those seconds, not even the decadence and promise of all her lover's coaxing touches.

"Unanimous? No one objected?" She barely dared to whisper the question, convinced that speaking the words too loud might shatter this dream and let reality flood back over them.

"Our Lady Redeemer was a spiritual bride when she crossed the Veil but in this world she was a woman. As are the Chantry's sisters, mothers and even the Divine," Leliana's gentle laugh reassured her with ease, one hand lovingly cradling her face, "The clerics cannot fight the will of those who lead the war for faith. They have all spoken, my love, in a united voice. There will be a new definition of purity and sanctified relations; proven by our devotion, not neglect."

"Thank the Maker." Solona barely remembered to mutter her praise before capturing the coral lips that had been so torturously unattainable for months, relishing the combined delight of forgotten and familiar pleasures. She felt Leliana's breath mingle with her own, twin sighs of relief as they reveled in the pleasure of surrender and victory all at once. Her beloved's mouth was as sweet and gentle as she remembered; persuasive then yielding, hungry but reverent and so perfect it made her ache. The Hero was growing dizzy before the need for air broke their kiss, lightheaded and clinging to one another to hold the spinning world at bay.

"I have been dying each day that I could not do that." The Divine's voice was raw in her throat, a husky confession ruffling her Warden's hair.

"So does this mean we have to get married?" Solona wondered, smirking as she felt the redhead's hands subtly guiding her to walk backwards. A wicked flash of teeth and tongue was reply enough as she was pressed onto the bed.

"Not today." Leliana smiled before finding her beloved's lips once again.

**End**

* * *


End file.
